6 


"JOHN,  I  AM  AFRAID  IT'S  No  USE!" 


A  LIVING  LEGACY 


BY 

RUTH  UNDERWOOD 


3IIustrate6  by 
GEORGE  GIBBS 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTON  COMPANY 
1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 
THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTON  CO. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.   A  DIFFICULT  SITUATION 9 

II.  A  CHAPTER  OF  PAST  HISTORY  WHICH 

BEARS  ON  FUTURE  EVENTS 19 

III.  A  SACRED  TRUST 29 

IV.  AN  INHERITED  FRIENDSHIP 41 

V.   THE  NATURE  OF  THE  TRUST 57 

VI.   THE  GULF  OF  YEARS 61 

VII.   IN  WHICH  CATHARINE  HEARS  OF  KING 

ARTHUR 70 

VIII.   THE     SIGNIFICANCE     OF    A    TAILOR'S 

GOOSE 76 

IX.   A  "SPOILED  CHILD" 83 

X.   JOHN  PLANS  A  TEST 97 

XI.   THE  TEST  SUCCEEDS 104 

XII.    WHICH    SHOWS   THAT  A   STORK   CAN 

MAKE  A  MISTAKE 112 

XIII.   "THE  DEEPEST  DEPTHS  OF  A  FULL 

HEART" 123 

XIV.  A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 133 

XV.   AN    OLD    ACQUAINTANCE    PROVES    A 

NEW  ADMIRER 148 

XVI.   THE  "LITTLE  GREEN  SNAKE" 158 

(iii) 


2138521 


IV 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

XVII.   "FORM"  AND  SUBSTANCE 170 

XVIII.   A  CRICKET  MATCH  AND  A  "LUCK- 
PENNY  " 177 

XIX.    "IT'S  No  USE" 189 

XX.   MARY  FAILS  TO  KEEP  HER  RESO- 
LUTION    202 

XXL   A  "HILL  OF  DIFFICULTY" 214 

XXII.   THE     "LITTLE     GREEN     SNAKE" 

STINGS  DEEPLY 226 

XXIII.  MARY  WANTS  TO  BE  "LIKE  OTHER 

GIRLS" 234 

XXIV.  Miss  NEWLIN'S  DIPLOMACY 243 

XXV.   MARY  FIGHTS  THE  "LITTLE  GREEN 

SNAKE" 251 

XXVI.   Miss  NEWLIN'S  DIPLOMACY  Almost 

FAILS 265 

XXVII.   TELLING  HOW  JOHN  CAME  TO  BE 

INVITED  TO  A  BIRTHDAY  PARTY.  269 

XXVIII.   JOHN  GETS  THE  RING 279 

XXIX.   SALVE  FOR  A  SORE  HEART 292 

XXX.   IN  WHICH  THE  HEROINE  DRAWS  A 

PICTURE  OF  HER  IDEAL  HUSBAND  301 
XXXI.   ANOTHER  "HILL  OF  DIFFICULTY"     309 
XXXII.   IN    WHICH    MARY    RECEIVES    AN 
EXCITING     LETTER,     AND    HER 
GUARDIAN  GETS  ANOTHER  RING.  317 
XXXIII.   AN    ENCOUNTER    THAT    WAS    NOT 

CHANCE..  .  327 


CONTENTS  v 

PAGE 

XXXIV.  THE    DISEASE    "Wmr  A    LATIN 

NAME" 339 

XXXV.   "PERILOUSLY  ATTRACTIVE" 350 

XXXVI.  A  MODERN  SIEGE  AT  VALLEY  FORGE  359 

XXXVII.   A  STRANGE  PROPOSAL 368 

XXXVIII.   MR.  CHANDLER  READS  THE  NEWS- 
PAPER   381 

XXXIX.   A  QUEST  FOR  A  COUNTRY  HOME  . .  384 
XL.   "No  BIGGER  THAN  A  MAN'S  HAND"  391 
XLI.   "A  LITTLE  SOMETHING — To  EARN 

HEAVEN" 398 

XLII.   THE  MORNING  AFTER 408 

XLIII.   AN  EAVESDROPPER  PERFORCE 419 

Conclusion.  IN  WHICH  AN  OLD  FRIEND  THINKS 
ALOUD. .  .  430 


ILLUSTRATIONS 
"JOHN,  I  AM  AFRAID  IT'S  No  USE!".  .Frontispiece 

PAGE 

"I  LOVE  You  Now,"  SHE  SAID 39 

"By  JOVE,  WHAT  A  BEAUTY!"  THE  OLDER 
MAN   EXCLAIMED 143 

"WILL  You  LET  ME  TELL  You  SOMETHING 
ABOUT  MYSELF?"  HE  ASKED.  .  .  340 


CHAPTER  I 
A  DIFFICULT  SITUATION 

"  /^  OOD   MORNING,  John;    I  see   I    have  a 

V   T  ki&  ma^  *^s  mornmg-" 

The  speaker  seated  himself  at  the  break- 
fast table  and  drew  his  letters  toward  him.  A  thin 
blue  envelope  protruded  ever  so  little  in  the  middle 
of  the  pile,  but  his  quick  eye  caught  it  at  once, 
and  he  pounced  upon  it  and  tore  it  open  with  an 
unsteady  hand.  John  Patterson,  the  butler  (who 
had  never  gone  by  any  title  but  that  of  "waiter- 
man"  in  the  long  years  he  had  been  in  Mrs.  Brown's 
service),  watched  his  master  with  some  anxiety  for 
a  moment,  and  then  quietly  withdrew  to  the  pantry; 
while  John  Brown  read  the  short  note  through  two 
or  three  times.  Finally  he  rose  and  went  to  the 
window.  As  he  stood  in  deep  thought  looking  out 
on  his  miniature  English  garden,  one  saw  that  he 
was  almost  a  giant  in  height,  and  indeed  his  very 
plain  face  topped  a  figure  six  feet  six  in  his  stockings, 
only  relieved  from  painful  thinness  and  angularity 
by  some  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  solid  brawn. 
He  had  been  nicknamed  "Samson"  at  college,  and 
the  name  had  clung,  though  there  was  little  about 
him  to  suggest  an  athlete.  He  carried  himself  badly, 
and  the  tendency  to  stoop,  and  general  lack  of  spring 

(9) 


10  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

in  his  gait,  made  him  look  like  a  man  well  into  mid- 
dle life;  and  those  who  did  not  know  that  on  this 
May  morning,  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  he  was 
within  a  few  days  of  his  thirty-fourth  birthday, 
would  have  reckoned  him  full  ten  years  older. 

His  grave,  unseeing  gaze  was  suddenly  withdrawn 
from  the  window  at  the  sound  of  his  name,  and  he 
turned  to  meet  his  mother.  No  one  would  have 
thought  her  his  mother,  for  the  one  feature  they  had 
had  in  common,  the  thick,  blue-black  hair,  had 
changed  with  her  to  iron  gray;  but  the  accustomed 
way  in  which  he  kissed  her  cheek,  as  he  abstractedly 
drew  back  her  chair,  bespoke  a  habit  of  such  long 
standing  that  it  had  become  automatic.  She  noticed 
the  mechanical  response  to  her  "good-morning," 
and  looked  at  him  with  the  same  affectionate  concern 
that  had  clouded  John  Patterson's  broad  face  a  few 
minutes  before. 

"Have  you  had  bad  news,  John?"  She  glanced 
at  the  open  letter  in  his  hand. 

"Dick  Farnham  is  at  home,  Mother,  and  I  am 
afraid  from  this,"  glancing  down  at  the  few  unsteady 
lines,  "in  a  very  serious  condition.  He  is  at  the  old 
house,  and  of  course  he  wants  to  see  me  at  once. 
If  I  can  attend  to  your  business  this  morning,  and  get 
your  reservations,  I  will  have  a  bite  of  lunch  down 
town  and  go  right  out  to  Germantown.  He  doesn't 
say  when  he  arrived,  but  he  is  terribly  knocked  up 
by  the  journey,  and  evidently  not  fit  to  write." 

"Why  did  he  come  home  so  unexpectedly?  I 
suppose,  now,  you  won't  think  of  going  abroad  your- 
self?" Mrs.  Brown's  voice  was  not  without  a  note  of 


A  DIFFICULT  SITUATION  11 

satisfaction.  The  prospect  of  sparing  her  son  for 
three  months  to  this  invalid  wanderer  had  been  a 
mountain  on  her  horizon,  and  Dick  Farnham,  John 's 
oldest  friend,  and  the  dearer  of  the  only  two  who  had 
ever  found  their  way  to  his  "sanctum  sanctorum," 
had  never  been  a  favorite  with  his  mother. 

"  Of  course  not ! "  The  matter  plainly  seemed  to  him 
self-evident.  "But  I  can't  think  why  he  didn't  let  me 
know  his  plan.  I  could  have  gone  over  to  be  with  him 
on  the  home  journey.  The  doctor  they  have  had  so 
long  came  over  with  them,  but  he  is  going  right  back. 
I  should  have  been  so  thankful  to  go." 

He  helped  himself  to  the  bacon  and  eggs  which 
John  Patterson  solicitously  offered,  but  seemed  to 
have  no  mind  for  eating.  His  face,  in  repose,  was 
often  a  sad  one,  and  bore  a  frequently  noted  likeness 
to  the  younger,  beardless  portraits  of  Lincoln.  The 
long,  deep-set  eyes  generally  passed  for  black;  but 
he  who  had  had  leisure  and  interest  to  scrutinize 
would  have  found  them  yellowish  hazel,  overshadowed 
by  the  heavy  black  brows  and  lashes.  They  were 
both  keen  and  kindly,  and,  together  with  his  large 
mouth  which  had  a  trick  of  pulling  crooked  when  he 
smiled,  and  trembling  when  he  was  deeply  moved, 
made  his  face  one  that  inspired  universal  confidence. 

"Dick  Farnham  ought  to  know  that  you  would  do 
anything  in  the  world  for  your  friends."  His  mother 
spoke  with  a  touch  of  resentment  at  what  she  always 
considered  John's  tendency  to  let  himself  be  imposed 
upon. 

"He  knows  I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  for 
him"  He  repeated  her  words  with  gentle  emphasis. 


12  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

This  friend,  who  was  not  in  Mrs.  Brown's  good  books, 
had  been  for  many  years  an  exile,  but  the  old  feeling 
toward  him  was  still  strong  within  her.  She  saw  that 
characteristic  trembling  of  John's  lips,  and  knew  her- 
self on  dangerous  ground,  but  there  was  something 
she  was  burning  to  say,  which  must  come  out  at  any 
cost.  She  would  lead  up  to  it  gradually. 

"Didn't  Dick  know  of  your  plan  to  spend  the  sum- 
mer with  him?" 

"No,  I  didn't  want  to  say  anything  about  it,  I 
might  so  easily  have  been  prevented,"  he  did  not  say 
"as  I  have  been  so  many  times,"  but  Mrs.  Brown 
supplied  the  omission  with  a  guilty  twinge;  "and 
when  a  man  is  tied  up  to  such  monotonous  days  as  his, 
he  builds  on  the  least  thing  in  an  abnormal  way,  and 
would  be  terribly  disappointed." 

Mrs.  Brown  saw  that  she  was  not  coming  to  her 
point  on  these  lines,  and  thought  best  to  make  a  short 
cut.  She  was  always  a  little  afraid  of  those  long, 
keen  eyes  that  saw  through  every  subterfuge. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  hope  you  will  never  consent 
to  do  for  him,  if  he  should  dream  of  asking  you." 
She  saw  danger  signals  in  his  face,  but  seized  her 
courage  in  both  hands:  "Has  he  ever  spoken  to  you 
about  the  guardianship  of  the  child?" 

It  was  out  at  last,  and  she  breathed  more  freely. 
John  hesitated,  and  his  color  rose  slightly;  she  saw 
she  had  hit  the  mark. 

"Perhaps  not  in  so  many  words,"  he  said  with  an 
evident  effort,  "but  I  know  he  would  like  to  leave  her 
in  my  care— jf  anything  should  happen, — and  no 
doubt  it  is  on  his  mind.  That  may  have  been  what 


A  DIFFICULT  SITUATION  13 

made  him  venture  the  trip  home.  But,  Mother,"  he 
looked  up  and  met  her j  eyes  squarely,  "if  Dick  had 
ten  children,  and  wanted  to  leave  them  all  in  my  care, 
I  would  willingly  accept  the  trust." 

He  spoke  almost  with  passion,  but  his  sense  of 
humor  was  not  proof  against  the  consternation  on 
his  mother's  comely  face.  A  twinkle  appeared  in  his 
eye,  and  one  corner  of  his  mouth  drew  up  a  little. 
"And  I  dare  say  I  should  make  a  mess  of  it,"  he  added. 

1 '  We  should  be  rather  crowded  if  you  saw  fit  to  bring 
them  all  here,"  Mrs.  Brown  said  stiffly.  Her  sense 
of  humor  was  hard  to  touch. 

"Now,  Mother,  be  sensible!"  The  smile  died  out 
and  his  face  took  on  its  former  gravity:  "You  know 
it  would  never  occur  to  me  to  bring  a  child  here  to 
live." 

"I  should  be  very  fond  of  your  children,"  she  has- 
tened to  say  with  some  asperity;  "but  a  strange  child 
is  a  very  different  thing,  and  this  used  to  be  a  dread- 
fully self-willed,  spoiled  one.  Her  grandmother  once 
told  me  that  she  had  many  anxious  hours  over  Mary's 
future,  and  you  never  denied  that  she  refused  to  go 
to  school.  Imagine  a  child's  deciding  that  she  won't 
go  to  school,  and  her  father's  just  giving  in  to  her!  It 
was  the  greatest  piece  of  weakness  I  ever  heard  of, 
and  you  could  never  give  any  excuse  for  it  that  I 
remember.  With  such  an  example  in  his  wife!  But 
there,  I've  talked  it  over  often  enough  and  I  can  always 
see  that  you  think  I'm  prejudiced,  and — "  John  rose 
quietly  from  his  almost  untasted  breakfast  and  went 
out  of  the  room.  His  mother  seemed  to  find  no  appe- 
tite for  hers.  She  started  up  as  though  she  would 


14  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

follow  him,  but  sat  down  again,  heavily,  wiping  away 
some  natural  tears  of  vexation  and  remorse.  How 
many  times  she  had  repressed  the  wish  to  speak  on 
this  subject  for  fear  of  being  led  on  to  give  too  ener- 
getic expression  to  her  feelings!  Nothing  corrodes 
like  "righteous"  indignation  that  sees  no  hope  of 
justifying  itself  in  the  only  quarter  where  justification 
matters.  Her  heart  was  full  to  bursting.  "Any  jury 
of  sensible  people"  would  have  pronounced  her  abso- 
lutely in  the  right;  but  this  one  Quixotic,  loyal  nature 
was  as  much  outside  her  influence  as  he  was  inside 
the  very  core  of  her  heart.  The  door  opened  behind 
her,  and  she  felt  John's  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "I  am 
sorry  to  have  been  so  impatient,"  he  said  huskily; 
"but  I  was  upset  by  the  letter." 

"Oh,  John!"  The  poor  lady's  tears  gushed  forth 
anew;  but  what  John  always  dreaded  as  following  any 
apology  on  his  part — a  reopening  of  the  whole  case — 
did  not  come  this  time.  She  felt  she  had  gone  too  far, 
and  hastened  to  say,  as  she  dried  her  eyes  and  com- 
posed her  face:  "I  ought  not  to  have  spoken  so  to 
you  of  Dick  just  now." 

John  patted  her  shoulder,  and  changed  the  subject 
by  asking  whether  she  had  decided  to  take  her  section 
for  Wednesday  or  Thursday. 

"I  think  I  will  say  Thursday,"  she  said  with  a  final 
sniff.  "Wednesday's  meeting  is  a  very  important  one 
and  I  ought  not  to  miss  it."  Mrs.  Brown  was  an 
ardent  worker  on  the  Women's  Auxiliary  Board  of 
Missions  of  Holy  Trinity  Church,  and  she  was  always 
sorry  that  she  could  not  awaken  her  otherwise  ex- 
emplary and  philanthropic  son  to  a  more  active 


A  DIFFICULT  SITUATION  15 

interest  in  this  inspiring  subject.  He  good-humoredly 
told  her  that  he  was  in  the  midst  of  so  much  need 
nearer  home,  it  had  a  tendency  to  make  him  near- 
sighted, but  she  was  inclined  to  set  his  lukewarmness 
down  to  Dick  Farnhan's  influence.  She  told  herself 
that  she  could  easily  have  forgiven  Dick  his  apostasy 
to  the  Quaker  faith  of  his  fathers,  if  only  he  had  joined 
himself  to  some  other  Evangelical  body — she  was  not 
bigoted  enough  to  require  the  Episcopal  Communion — 
but  she  had  always  feared  his  companionship  for 
John. 

If  she  had  been  capable  of  reading  her  own  heart 
she  would  have  seen  lurking  at  the  bottom  of  her 
distrust  a  long-harbored  spark  of  jealousy  dating 
from  the  time  when  she  began  to  discover  Dick's 
power  over  the  younger  boy — there  were  some  four 
years  between  them.  She  could  not  mention  a  single 
time  when  he  had  led  John  astray  in  action,  but  she 
had  felt  that  he  might  in  "opinions,"  it  had  always 
given  her  a  sharp  pang  to  see  John  with  his  arm  about 
the  neck  of  this  boy  friend  who  so  easily  won  what 
she  knew  herself  incapable  of  winning. 

Did  God  ever  make  a  purer  bond  than  the  friend- 
ship of  the  big  boy  and  the  little  boy,  with  its  pro- 
tecting chivalry  on  the  one  side,  and  frank  hero- 
worship  on  the  other?  Separation  had  never  weakened 
the  tie  between  these  two,  though  they  had  seldom 
been  together  since  Dick  left  Haverford  in  his  junior 
year  (before  John  entered)  and  went  to  the  Boston 
"Tech."  to  study  civil  engineering. 

John's  heart  was  full  of  a  mixture  of  feelings  after 
he  left  his  mother. 


16  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

An  only  son,  he  had  had  one  sister  whom  he  loved 
as  he  loved  no  one  else,  and  who  had  returned  his 
affection  in  kind;  but  between  himself  and  both 
father  and  mother  there  had  always  been  a  gulf  of 
want  of  comprehension,  in  spite  of  strong  mutual 
affection.  His  sister  had  died  soon  after  leaving 
boarding  school,  just  when  she  and  John  were  con- 
fidently counting  on  each  other's  society  at  home — in 
enjoyment  as  uninterrupted  as  one  could  expect  with 
a  young  girl  in  constant  demand  by  companions  of 
both  sexes,  and  "coming  out"  in  Society,  with  a 
capital  S. 

He  was  the  elder  by  nearly  four  years,  was  com- 
pleting his  law-course  in  the  University  of  Penn- 
sylvania, which  he  had  chosen  that  he  might  remain 
in  the  old  Philadelphia  home;  and  had  promised 
Margaret  that  he  would  overcome  his  distaste  for 
social  "functions,"  and  docilely  march  his  long  legs 
into  drawing-rooms  and  ballrooms  in  her  company; 
"though  no  most  exacting  hostess  with  a  bevy  of 
*  wall-flowers'  could  expect  a  giraffe  to  dance." 
The  terpsichorean  art  would  assuredly  have  suited 
him  ill;  and  as  he  was  not  gifted  with  small  talk, 
he  became  in  that  short  time  of  "going  out,"  the 
much-appreciated  companion  of  fathers  and  grand- 
fathers, with  occasional  practice  on  a  mother  or  maiden 
aunt. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  self-conscious  or  embittered 
by  his  want  of  social  talent,  and  his  sister's  death 
soon  swept  everything  else  from  his  mind.  After 
that  he  led  a  rather  solitary  life,  and  was  rarely 
thrown  with  girls  or  women.  With  men  he  was  al- 


A  DIFFICULT  SITUATION  17 

ways  popular  up  to  a  certain  point,  though  few  were 
ever  intimate  with  him,  even  at  the  cricket  club  where 
he  spent  most  of  his  leisure  time,  and  his  brother 
lawyers  found  him  a  trifle  uncomfortable  in  his 
standards,  however  unassuming  in  his  claims.  One 
had  nicknamed  him  "Don  Quixote,"  but  all 
thoroughly  respected  his  integrity  and  ability,  and 
many  would  have  been  glad  to  be  admitted  with 
Dick  Farnham,  and  the  much  younger  George  Ray- 
mond, behind  the  doors  of  his  ingrained  reserve. 

The  idea  entered  John's  brooding  mind  that  morn- 
ing as  he  tethered  one  half  his  thoughts  to  the  busi- 
ness in  hand  and  let  the  other  half  roam  at  will,  that 
if  the  little  girl  in  question  had  been  George's,  his 
mother's  attitude  would  have  been  a  quite  different 
one.  She  had  always  been  heartily  fond  of  George, 
and  he  was  a  constant  and  very  enlivening  visitor 
hi  the  quiet  house,  while  Dick  had  hardly  once 
entered  its  doors  for  more  than  twenty  years,  and  had 
had  no  chance  to  efface  old  impressions,  even  if  it 
had  been  possible  for  him  ever  to  have  done  so.  In 
his  case  it  is  probable  that  absence  was  his  best  advo- 
cate. Mrs.  Brown  thought  much  more  tolerantly  of 
him  when  she  did  not  see  him,  and  the  tragic  circum- 
stances of  his  adult  life  had  measurably  softened  her 
old  antipathy. 

The  crooked  trembling  lines  of  Dick's  little  letter 
had  told  John,  more  than  the  simple  statement,  that 
he  felt  the  end  was  near;  and  the  joy  of  this  ap- 
proaching meeting,  after  nearly  seven  years,  was 
more  than  counterbalanced.  But  through  all  the 
pain  and  apprehension,  John's  heart  would  revert 

2     , 


18  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

with  eager  excitement  to  the  child  who  was  to  be,  in 
a  manner,  his  property.  He  remembered  her  well 
as  a  remarkably  pretty,  intelligent,  little  girl  of  six 
or  seven,  who  had  aroused  all  the  dormant  child- 
hunger  in  his  nature  in  the  one  all-too-short  year 
that  Dick  had  spent  with  his  widowed  mother 
in  Germantown. 

"She  must  be  a  big  girl  now,  though,"  he  thought 
with  sudden  damping  of  his  ardor  and  a  new  appre- 
hension. "If  only  she  were  a  boy  that  he  might 
bring  home  and  keep!" 

An  alluring  vision  rose  in  John's  mind  of  studies 
to  be  helped,  games  to  be  taught,  excursions  in  the 
woods  or  on  the  river.  (He  always  got  on  famously 
with  boys  of  all  ages.)  "Oh,  well,  there  was  no  use 
thinking  of  what  might  have  been.  He  would  do 
his  best  for  a  girl,  and  maybe  she  might  grow  to  be 
like  Margaret."  But  no  girl  that  he  saw — they  were 
few  enough  he  had  to  admit — ever  did  seem  a  bit 
like  Margaret,  and  recent  brushes  with  a  highly 
sophisticated  damsel  or  two  had  left  him  with  a 
reluctant  scepticism  as  to  the  growing  generation. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  CHAPTER  OF  PAST  HISTORY  WHICH  BEARS  ON 
FUTURE  EVENTS 

IF  Dick  Farnham's  face  had  not  been  the  mascu- 
line counterpart  of  his  gentle  Quaker  mother, 
he  would  have  been  unanimously  voted  a  change- 
ling in  the  placid,  methodical  family  into  which  he 
happened  to  be  born.  He  was  the  youngest  of  four 
children,  and  if  example  be  better  than  precept,  the 
cheerful  decorum  and  unquestioning  obedience  of 
the  other  three  should  have  sufficed  to  make  him  a 
model  child.  Perhaps  there  are  times  when  example 
is  too  much  "rubbed  in,"  and  the  best  rule  is  said  to 
be  proved  by  an  occasional  exception.  He  could 
hardly  have  been  reproached  for  disobedience,  though, 
for  it  never  entered  the  heads  of  his  unimaginative 
parents  to  forbid  the  things  he  took  it  into  his  own  to 
do;  and  if  he  continually  kicked  over  the  traces, 
they  were  generally  the  traces  of  an  unwritten  code. 
He  equaled  them  all  in  frankness,  and  surpassed 
them  in  the  art  of  loving,  which  was  no  mean  attain- 
ment; and  while  his  mother  punished  him  and  prayed 
over  him,  redoubling  the  prayers  when  he  grew  too 
big  to  punish,  her  tender  conscience  accused  her  of 
flagrant  partiality  in  the  secretest  corner  of  her  heart. 
But  how  could  she  help  it!  Everybody  loved  him 

(19) 


20  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

best,  from  the  man  who  carted  away  the  ashes  of  a 
Saturday  morning  to  the  sweet-faced  teacher  of  the 
Primary  class  in  the  Germantown  Friends'  School, 
whom  he  was  always  posing  by  his  questions,  and 
winning  by  lover-like  offerings  of  the  prettiest  pansies, 
or  forget-me-nots,  or  pinks,  presented  with  never- 
failing  regret  that  they  would  droop  in  his  little  warm 
hand.  The  questions,  which  covered  the  whole 
scheme  of  the  universe — with  a  special  tendency  to 
soar  above  this  sublunary  sphere — were  never  pert, 
and  the  teacher's  Orthodox  mind  was  occasionally 
troubled  by  a  suspicion  that  they  were  pertinent. 
As  he  grew  older,  he  took  to  religious  discussions  as 
naturally  as  to  love-making,  and  proved  a  winner 
in  both  departments.  His  mother  and  father,  who 
were  greatly  disturbed  by  his  latitudinarianism, 
exacted  strict  attendance  at  Meeting  while  he  was 
under  their  jurisdiction;  but  they  had  the  pain  of 
seeing  him  break  loose  when  left  to  himself,  and  the 
still  greater  pain  of  seeing  him  fall  headlong  into 
love  with  a  beauty,  who  was  not  a  Friend,  and  who 
was  in  no  way  fitted — or  so  they  believed — to  make 
him  happy.  She  made  him  ecstatically  happy  for 
the  space  of  the  honeymoon,  and  then  the  disillusion- 
ment began.  In  the  little  western  town  where  he 
was  occupied  in  bridge-building,  he  underwent  the 
severest  discipline  a  nature  like  his  could  know;  and 
barely  two  years  from  his  wedding  day,  his  wife  eloped 
with  a  brother  engineer,  and  left  him  alone  (yet 
less  alone  than  in  her  company)  with  a  baby  daughter 
who  filled  his  world.  All  the  thwarted,  disappointed 
love  of  his  heart  centered  on  the  child,  whom  no  con- 


PAST  HISTORY  21 

sideration  could  have  tempted  him  to  give  up.  He 
declined  the  well-meant  offer  of  his  wife's  sister, 
Mrs.  Gill,  with  a  finality  that  broke  off  even  the 
strained  relations  existing  between  them  before; 
nor  could  he  be  prevailed  upon  to  go  back  to  German- 
town  and  live  with  his  parents,  whom  the  years  had 
left  childless.  His  mother  knew  him  too  well  to  sug- 
gest his  resigning  the  baby  to  her  while  he  lived  in  the 
West;  but  her  yearning  anxiety  had  now  an  additional 
object. 

Dick  had  given  up  his  work  entirely  the  day  after 
his  wife's  desertion,  and,  with  the  warm  promise 
from  his  chief  of  a  good  post  when  he  should  be  ready 
to  take  it,  had  devoted  all  his  time  to  his  one  treasure. 
He  had  the  good  fortune  to  find  a  Protestant  Irish 
woman,  old  enough  to  have  judgment,  and  young 
enough  to  like  the  care  of  an  active  child  already 
beginning  to  run  about;  and  her  qualities  of  head 
and  heart  so  won  his  confidence  that  he  was  soon 
able  to  go  back  to  his  work,  leaving  little  Mary  in 
her  charge.  Catharine  had  great  love  for  children, 
and  infinite  patience  and  tact;  and  she  contrived  so 
many  ways  of  letting  off  steam,  that  the  miniature 
high-power  engine  in  her  charge  seldom  ran  off  the 
very  broad-gauge  track  allowed  her.  As  the  child 
had  a  quick  temper  as  well  as  a  strong  will,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  her  grandmother  was  concerned  for 
the  future,  since  it  was  soon  evident  that  Dick's 
regime  contained  no  penal  code,  and  included  no 
ex  post  facto  sentences.  He  was  not  entirely  weak 
where  the  child  was  concerned,  nor  was  he  too  self- 
indulgent  to  have  punished  her  small  misdemeanors 


22  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

if  he  had  felt  it  a  duty  to  her  character;  he  simply 
disbelieved  in  the  efficacy  of  punishment.  "Being 
spanked  or  put  to  bed  in  the  daytime  never  made  me 
any  better,"  he  told  himself;  "and  she  is  hardly 
ever  naughty."  Perhaps  some  correct  people  would 
entirely  have  disagreed  with  him  on  both  points, 
and  he  soon  recognized  that  Mary  was  as  like  him 
in  character  as  it  was  possible  for  a  little  girl  to  be. 
His  conscience  had  uneasy  moments  after  each  letter 
from  his  mother,  who  thought  he  should  make  up 
his  mind  to  come  East  at  any  professional  sacrifice, 
and  that  "the  child  should  not  be  left  so  much  to 
the  care  of  an  ignorant  woman,  however  faithful." 
She  had  been  horrified  once  to  hear  that  Mary  had 
badly  bitten  little  Jack  Wurts,  her  constant  play- 
mate, and  that,  only  because  he  -would  kiss  her,  and 
Dick  refrained  from  mentioning  the  tantrums  that 
had  surprised  and  discouraged  himself  when  Cath- 
arine had  been  off  duty  for  a  couple  of  weeks  in  a 
neighboring  hospital. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  his  accusing  con- 
science had  been  stilled  by  an  event  which  solved  the 
problem  for  the  time  being.  His  father  had  died 
suddenly,  and  his  mother,  after  the  necessary  adjust- 
ment of  her  affairs,  had  returned  with  Dick  and  Mary 
to  the  little  Black  Run  cottage  where  Dick  was  fill- 
ing a  contract  of  his  own.  Even  amid  the  stress 
of  social  and  business  claims,  Mrs.  Farnham's  mind 
had  found  time  to  dwell  anxiously  upon  her  grand- 
daughter, who  "wound  them  all  round  her  finger." 
She  felt  obliged  to  remonstrate  when  the  child 
drenched  herself  with  soap  and  water  over  her  doll's 


PAST  HISTORY  23 

wash,  or  returned  like  a  little  sweep  from  the  business 
of  blacking  the  kitchen  stove;  but  Catharine  told 
her  with  modest  deference,  that  her  father  never 
minded  if  it  were  only  her  clothes  that  suffered. 
"She  hardly  ever  gets  cold,"  she  said  propitiatingly, 
"and  she  has  too  much  sense  to  touch  the  hot  parts 
of  the  stove  when  I  tell  her  where  they  are." 

One  acute  cause  of  concern  Mrs.  Farnham  kept 
to  herself  till  a  fitting  opportunity  should  come  to 
broach  the  subject  with  Dick.  His  loving  admiring 
eyes  resting  upon  her  as  they  sat  together  in  the 
ugly  little  cottage-parlor  the  evening  after  their  return 
to  the  West  might  have  quieted  any  fear  of  giving 
offence;  but  her  voice  was  not  quite  steady  as  she 
said  hesitatingly:  "Dick,  I  have  been  wanting  to 
speak  to  thee  about  Mary's  religious  instruction. 
What  is  thee  teaching  her?  Surely  thee  would  not 
impart  thy  doubts,  if  thee  still  has  them,  to  her  little 
mind?" 

(Dick  always  undressed  the  child  and  put  her  to 
bed  himself,  and  seeing  Catharine  tactfully  withdraw, 
after  leaving  everything  ready  to  his  hand,  Mrs. 
Farnham  had  taken  the  unintended  hint,  and  re- 
frained from  intrusion  on  those  bed-time  rites.) 

His  face  quivered  at  her  searching  question.  It 
was  long  since  he  and  his  mother  had  spoken  on  this 
delicate  subject,  but  he  answered  with  gentle  readi- 
ness: "Mother,  I  think  faith  is  the  greatest  thing 
in  the  world,  for  you  can't  have  real  love  without  it, 
but  I  should  like  to  give  Mary  a  faith  too  broad  to 
be  easily  overturned.  I  don't  want  her  to  depend 
on  broken  reeds.  My  own  worst  trouble  was  not 


24  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

losing  my  wife;  it  was  losing  faith  in  her."  His 
voice  broke.  Mrs.  Farnham  found  no  fitting  response. 

"But  it  never  shook  my  faith  in  human  nature," 
he  finally  went  on;  "I  saw  she  hadn't  tried  to  deceive 
me;  I  had  only  insisted  on  giving  her  a  character 
that  didn't  belong  to  her,  and  making  an  idol  of  it. 
I'm  afraid  I'll  hurt  thee  if  I  say  that  is  what  people 
seem  to  me  to  be  doing  with  the  Bible  in  idealizing 
it — in  teaching  children  that  it  is  infallible.  Many 
men  I  know  are  losing  hold  on  it  altogether,  and  let- 
ting it  go  out  of  their  lives  just  because  they  were 
required  to  believe  something  of  it  as  children  that 
they  find  untenable  now.  Don't  think  I  under- 
value it,"  he  interrupted  himself,  "I  shouldn't  have 
made  that  comparison,  perhaps.  I  have  read  it  a 
good  deal  these  lonely  evenings,  and  I  wouldn't  be 
without  it  for  anything;  but  I  could  never  look  on 
it  as  all  of  equal  weight  and  inspiration." 

"Ah,  my  dear  boy,"  Mrs.  Farnham  replied  sadly, 
"if  the  young  people  of  to-day  would  trust  more  to  the 
guidance  and  enlightenment  of  the  Holy  Spirit  in 
reading  the  Scriptures,  and  would  cultivate  that 
pure  humility  that  seems  to  be  so  much  less  common 
than  it  used  to  be,  I  think  they  would  get  closer  to 
the  truth.  I  know  thee  has  a  great  love  of  truth,  but 
it  pains  me  unspeakably  to  feel  that  thee  has  been 
led  to  doubt  the  doctrines  of  Friends  regarding  the 
Atonement,  or  the  Divinity  of  Our  Lord." 

Dick  said  nothing.  His  chin  rested  on  his  inter- 
laced fingers;  his  eyes  were  on  the  ground. 

"The  day  before  we  left  home,"  Mrs.  Farnham 
went  on,  "Mary  was  with  me  in  my  room  when  I 


PAST  HISTORY  25 

said  my  morning  prayer,  so  I  prayed  aloud  in  words 
that  she  could  understand.  She  was  quiet  for  some 
time  after  we  rose  from  our  knees,  and  I  saw  her  look- 
ing out  of  the  window  as  though  she  were  thinking 
deeply  about  something.  Finally  she  turned  to  me 
and  said  with  the  wise  look  she  has:  "Grandma, 
Father  never  says  'for  Jesus'  sake'  before  'Amen.' 
(Mrs.  Farnham  never  tried  to  repeat  Mary's  sayings 
in  the  vernacular;  it  would  have  seemed  to  her  an 
approach  to  play-acting.) 

Dick's  bright,  expectant  eyes  had  been  raised  to 
hers  as  soon  as  she  commenced  to  speak  of  the  child, 
and  at  the  quotation  of  her  words,  a  smile,  partly 
amused  and  surprised,  altogether  tender,  overspread 
his  face. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  replying  to  the  gentle  impeach- 
ment of  her  grave  eyes,  "I  have  told  Mary  that  her 
Heavenly  Father  loves  her  even  more  than  I  do, 
and  is  even  more  anxious  to  give  her  everything 
that  is  right.  How  could  I  make  her  understand 
why  she  should  ask  anything  'for  Jesus'  sake'?" 

Mrs.  Farnham's  eyes  filled.  She  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment; then  she  said  gravely:  "But  is  it  not  God's 
love  that  'gave'  us  His  'only  begotten  Son'  to  be  a 
mediator?  I  accept  no  mediation  of  man,  and  we 
are  all  told  to  believe  in  the  'Indwelling  Christ/ 
who  can  'guide  us  into  all  truth';  but  the  dear  Lord 
himself  enjoined  upon  us  to  ask  in  His  name,  and  said 
'No  man  cometh  unto  the  Father  but  by  me.'" 

"Ah,  but  how?"  was  the  quick  rejoinder.  "It 
is  so  hard  to  say  just  what  I  want,  but  I  know  thee 
doesn't  hold  the  theory  of  the  Atonement  that  some 


26  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

of  our  good  old  Friends  preached  till  I  felt  I  couldn't 
sit  still  another  minute.  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  have 
stayed  away  for  that  reason;  but  they  stirred  up 
every  combative  feeling  in  me  whenever  I  went. 
They  say  things  are  different  now,  but  I  haven't 
been  in  a  Meeting  since  the  old  Haverford  days 
until  these  last  weeks,  and  it  seemed  pretty  much  the 
same  old  story.  I  feel  more  charitable  now,  and  I 
know  they  often  mean  'life'  when  they  say  'blood.' 
Forgive  me,  Mother;  I  want  to  be  quite  reverent; 
but  it  seems  to  me  a  pity  to  use  a  term  that  reminds 
us  all  the  time  of  the  original  idea  of  an  animal  offer- 
ing to  appease  an  angry  God.  I  suppose  thee  sides 
with  those  who  believe  that  God's  love  was  obliged 
to  sacrifice  Jesus  to  His  sense  of  justice?  That 
makes  it  possible  to  believe  in  a  loving  Heavenly 
Father;  but  it  is  very  subtle  and  hard  to  understand. 
"I  am  no  theologian,"  he  went  on,  after  waiting 
in  vain  for  her  answer;  "but  I  have  thought  a  great 
deal  about  these  things,  and  I  have  really  prayed  hard 
to  know  how  to  teach  Mary  the  right  thing.  I  don't 
deny  Jesus'  divinity;  but  I  believe  that  we  are  all 
'sons  of  God,' — that  is,  that  all  the  spiritual  part  of 
us  is  like  a  fire  kindled  at  the  great  central  Divine 
Fire,  and  is  of  the  same  'substance,'  or  'essence/ 
or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it.  The  difference 
of  our  divinity  from  Christ's  can  only  be  a  difference 
in  degree.  'In  Him  dwelt  all  the  fullness  of  the 
Godhead  bodily.'  Surely  there  cannot  be  two 
kinds  of  divinity.  It  is  theoretically  possible  for  each 
one  of  us  to  be  'perfect  even  as  our  Father  in  Heaven 
is  perfect.'  We  are  commanded  to  be  so." 


PAST  HISTORY  27 

"But  thee  is  leaving  out  the  supernatural  elements 
in  Jesus'  life." 

"Mother,  I  have  told  thee  that  I  am  very  ignorant 
of  what  learned  people  think  on  these  subjects,  but 
I  don't  understand  them  myself.  Most  of  the  little 
theology  I  have  read  was  'Greek'  to  me.  The  reason- 
ing is  too  subtle.  The  Bible,  and  the  copy  of  Whit- 
tier's  poems  thee  gave  me  when  I  went  to  college, 
have  been  my  stand-bys.  I  am  sure  most  of  my 
ideas  must  have  been  held  by  thousands  of  other 
people,  for  they  seem  just  what  would  come  naturally 
to  any  unbiased  mind  trying  to  reason  things  out. 
If  I  ever  have  time  I'm  going  to  study  up  a  little  on 
'criticism.' 

"But  thee  hasn't  answered  my  question,  dear. 
What  value  does  thee  put  upon  the  accounts  of  the 
Nativity  in  Matthew  and  Luke?" 

"That's  just  what  I'm  not  prepared  to  say,"  he 
returned  with  a  quick  smile,  acknowledging  that  she 
scored  a  point.  "I  teach  Mary  the  beautiful  Christmas 
gospels  as  anyone  would  teach  them  to  a  child.  What 
does  it  matter  if  truth  and  legend  have  got  a  little 
mixed  up!  But  later  I  shall  teach  her  what  I  think 
is  the  truth  in  regard  to  the  'Immaculate  Birth.' 
I  cannot  believe  in  it  as  thee  does.  I  don't  deny  that 
it  may  be  possible,  but  it  ought  not  to  be  necessary 
to  Christ's  divinity.  That  seems  to  me  to  belittle 
ordinary  motherhood,  and  I  can't  believe  God  ever 
breaks  His  own  laws." 

"But  does  thee  think  we  fully  understand  what 
His  laws  are?" 

"No,  I  am  sure  we  don't.     We  are  beginning  to 


28  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

understand  some  things  that  used  to  be  called  super- 
natural. I  really  don't  believe  there  is  any  such 
thing  as  ' supernatural. ": 

He  sighed  deeply  as  he  saw  his  mother's  half- 
puzzled,  half-pained  expression.  Suddenly  he  rose 
and  kissed  her. 

"I  have  never  spoken  to  anyone  about  all  this 
before,  but  I  want  us  to  understand  each  other,  and 
I  want  thee  to  see  that  I  shall  try  to  teach  Mary  not 
to  love  Christ  less,  only  differently.  If  I  were  to  die 
I  would  leave  her  to  thy  teaching  with  perfect  con- 
fidence; but  while  I  live  I  can  never  give  up  this 
part  of  her  education,  and  I  couldn't  possibly  teach 
her  anything  I  didn't  believe  myself.  I  will  try  to 
make  her  teaching  as  evangelical  as  I  conscientiously 
can.  Will  that  satisfy  thee?"  He  kissed  her  again 
in  the  old-time  boyish  way  that  had  always  made  it 
so  hard  to  resist  him. 

"My  precious  child,  I  can  only  ask  that  the  Holy 
Spirit  may  'guide  thee  into  all  truth.'  I  cannot 
think  thy  reasoning  right,  but  I  know  thy  heart  is 
right,  and  we  all  have  much  need  of  guidance." 


CHAPTER  III 
A  SACRED  TRUST 

THAT  had  been  a  happy  time  for  Dick;  and  his 
mother,  in  spite  of  her  recent  sorrow  and  the 
great  change  in  her  life,  found  a  deep  joy  in  the 
companionship  of  this  son,  of  whom  she  had  seen  so 
little  since  his  boyhood,   and  she  learned  to  love 
Mary  as  only  grandmothers  can. 

In  the  spring  Dick  completed  his  work,  and  they 
went  back  to  Germantown  for  that  year  in  which 
John's  acquaintance  with  his  future  ward  began  and 
ended.  The  following  spring  Mrs.  Farnham  followed 
her  husband  to  that  other  world  which  had  been  so 
much  with  her  in  this,  and  the  happy  household  was 
broken  up. 

Some  months  previously  an  event  had  occurred 
which  was  to  mean  much  to  little  Mary  and  to  big 
John  Brown.  Dick  had  had  a  fall  from  a  bridge  pier, 
which  caused  great  anxiety  to  his  mother  and  John; 
but  after  two  or  three  days  of  lameness,  he  seemed 
entirely  recovered,  and  the  doctor  could  find  no 
permanent  injury.  It  was  not  till  after  his  mother's 
death  that  he  began  to  suffer  from  headache  and 
lassitude,  both  unprecedented  with  him.  They 
were  attributed,  partly  at  least,  to  nervous  strain 
and  all  the  consequences  of  his  bereavement;  for 

(29) 


30  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

the  loss  of  his  mother  was  a  heavy  blow, — the  more 
so  that  little  Mary  missed  her  grandmother  sorely. 

The  doctor  recommended  a  sea  voyage,  and  Dick 
had  gone  abroad,  with  the  child  and  Catharine.  He 
meant  to  spend  the  summer  in  easy  traveling  to  the 
great  engineering  wonders  of  Germany  and  Switzer- 
land, combining  pleasure  with  physical  and  mental 
profit.  Mary  was  old  enough  to  be  interested  in 
many  things,  and  her  father  was  an  inexhaustible 
mine  of  amusement.  It  was  a  summer  of  delight, 
in  spite  of  stubborn  recurrences  of  the  headache, 
which  turned,  in  the  autumn,  to  backache,  and 
induced  Dick  to  plan  a  speedy  return  home.  But 
just  as  they  were  setting  out  from  the  little  town  of 
Spiess  on  Lake  Thun,  he  was  stricken  with  entire 
paralysis  of  the  lower  limbs,  which  made  a  journey 
of  any  considerable  length  impossible. 

It  was  long  before  he  would  give  up  hope.  His 
rebellious  spirit  fought  against  the  fearful  fate  that 
confronted  him  of  a  life  of  helpless  invalidism  and 
suffering;  but  as  the  hope  grew  less,  week  by  week, 
and  month  by  month,  he  gained  strength  to  conquer 
despair,  to  overcome  pain  and  weakness,  and  be  almost 
his  old  bright  self  for  the  sake  of  the  child.  He  must 
make  his  couch  an  attractive  place '  for  her,  or  his 
life  would  be  desolate  indeed !  How  well  he  succeeded 
was  evident  to  all  who  saw  them  together;  what  it 
cost  him  only  God  knew — God,  and,  as  he  often  told 
himself,  John  Brown. 

Yet  in  all  his  years  of  exile  he  had  seen  John  only 
once.  He  had  never  left  Switzerland,  and  it  was  in  a 
villa  that  he  rented  for  many  years  on  Lake  Geneva, 


A  SACRED  TRUST  31 

near  the  town  of  Lausanne,  that  the  happy  meeting 
took  place.  John  had  induced  his  mother  to  spend 
a  summer  abroad,  and  had  stolen  a  month  of  it  for  a 
visit  to  his  friend.  He  had  not  seen  Mary,  for  the 
night  before  his  arrival  she  had  developed  scarlet- 
fever,  and  was  strictly  quarantined  on  the  top  floor, 
with  Catharine  and  her  father's  capable  nurse  in 
attendance.  John  did  not  dare  to  see  her  for  fear  of 
carrying  the  contagion  to  Dick,  who  was  forbidden 
the  slightest  risk,  and  whom  only  the  companionship 
and  influence  of  his  friend  kept  from  open  rebellion. 
He  had  said  that  any  attendant  would  do  for  him; 
but  John  set  aside  all  suggestions  of  strange  nursing 
and  gave  his  time  to  the  invalid  day  and  night. 
The  fever  proved  light,  and  reassuring  messages 
constantly  reached  them  from  above;  so  the  visit 
had  been  an  almost  unclouded  joy  even  to  Dick. 
John  delayed  his  parting  till  the  little  patient  was 
declared  nearly  out  of  quarantine,  and  his  mother's 
endurance — her  patience  had  gone  long  before —  was 
practically  exhausted.  He  knew  his  going  would 
mean  desolation  to  poor  Dick,  but  he  counted  on  the 
child's  return  to  heal  the  ache. 

When  the  nurse  had  half-jokingly  said,  on  renewing 
her  duties,  that  "she  was  afraid  she  was  but  a  poor 
substitute  for  Mr.  Brown,"  Dick  had  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall,  and  even  his  never-failing  courtesy 
had  proved  unequal  to  the  occasion. 

It  was  with  these  and  other  memories  of  the  past, 
that  John's  mind  was  filled  as  he  made  the  short 
journey  from  the  city. 

He  and  Dick  had  been  good  correspondents — for 


32  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

men — but,  latterly,  the  letters  had  grown  shorter,  and, 
on  Dick's  part,  less  frequent.  How  full  they  used  to 
be  of  the  life  in  Switzerland,  and  how  brave  and  uncom- 
plaining! John  knew  the  details  of  the  school  episode 
which  had  so  aroused  his  mother's  indignation  (it  had 
occurred  just  before  his  visit  to  Lausanne),  and, 
though  he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  blame  Dick, 
he  had  felt  hopeless  of  bringing  Mrs.  Brown  to  his  way 
of  looking  at  the  matter,  and  had  made  no  attempt  to 
tell  her  about  it. 

He  knew  how  Dick  had  made  the  sacrifice,  and  was 
resting  in  the  peace — and  loneliness — of  duty  done, 
when  the  passionate,  headstrong  child  had  rushed 
back  from  school,  and  told  him  she  would  not  stay; 
and  then  had  cut  short  his  attempts  at  sternness  and 
reasoning  by  kissing  him  over  and  over  again  and  cry- 
ing on  his  pillow  and  begging  him  to  let  her  stay  with 
him  and  be  taught  there. 

He  had  known  it  wrong  to  keep  her  from  the  com- 
panionship of  other  children,  but  he  had  not  had 
strength  of  purpose  equal  to  hers,  and  she  had  won  the 
day.  He  had  taught  her  much,  himself,  and  had 
studied  languages  with  her  from  native  teachers,  both 
gaming  an  excellent  knowledge  of  French  and  German. 
In  history,  and  study  of  the  Bible,  she  covered  ground 
rarely  gained  by  school  girls,  and  Dick  talked  to  her  of 
her  own  nature,  and  the  meaning  of  life,  as  a  wise 
mother  might  have  spoken;  and  taught  her,  by  means 
of  the  world's  great  love-stories  and  poems,  to  feed 
her  budding  emotions  on  what  was  noblest  and  purest 
in  the  history  of  passion. 

If  he  checked  her  impulses  very  little  and  almost 


A  SACRED  TRUST  33 

ignored  conventions,  he  trained  her  soul,  and  watched 
it  find  its  wings.  He  tried  to  make  it  as  beautiful  as 
her  body,  and  only  prayed,  in  Heine's  exquisite  words, 
that  God  would  keep  her 

So  rein,  und  schon,  und  hold. 

It  was  one  of  those  perfect  days  when  the  freshness 
of  spring  was  beginning  to  merge  in  the  luxuriance  of 
summer;  when  the  last  lilacs  still  lingered  and  the 
earliest  rose-buds  were  showing  color.  Soft  sprays 
of  bridal-wreath  and  mock-orange  scented  the  air  from 
the  many  well-kept  little  lawns  and  dooryards,  as 
John  trod  the  familiar  streets  toward  the  old  Farnham 
house. 

It  had  been  occupied  for  years  by  an  elderly  cousin 
in  reduced  circumstances,  who  used  only  a  part  but 
kept  the  whole  in  spotless  order,  in  return  for  a  rent- 
free  lodging.  She  had  modestly  insisted  on  retiring 
when  the  news  of  Dick's  home-coming  reached  her, 
and  had  only  waited  to  see  that  all  was  in  readiness 
for  the  pathetic  little  party,  urging  a  long-desired 
visit  to  a  relative  as  a  reason  for  leaving  next  day. 
As  John  entered  the  old,  well-remembered  hall,  and 
mounted  the  stairs  to  Mrs.  Farnham's  room,  in  which 
he  was  told  he  would  find  the  invalid,  the  past  was  so 
crowding  his  mind  that  it  seemed  as  if  Dick's  lithe, 
active  figure  would  come  swinging  down  to  meet  him 
half  way. 

So  strong  was  the  illusion,  that  the  white  form  of  the 
nurse,  passing  him  with  the  injunction  to  "go  in  at 
once,"  was  like  a  cold  hand  at  his  heart.  The  cheery 
greeting,  which  he  was  preparing,  died  on  his  lips,  and 

3 


34  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

the  sight  of  the  changed,  emaciated  face  turned  towards 
him  from  the  old  four-poster,  the  eager,  welcoming 
eyes  so  unnaturally  large,  and  the  eager  "Oh,  John!" 
such  a  ghost  of  his  old  voice,  made  the  hand  clutch 
more  fiercely  and  the  constriction  in  his  throat  forbid 
one  word  of  answering  greeting.  He  could  only  hold 
the  thin  hand  in  his  strong  one,  trying  in  vain  to  keep 
back  the  burning  tears.  He  was  ashamed  of  his  want 
of  self-control  and  afraid  of  its  effect  on  Dick,  but  the 
quiet  voice  reassured  him:  "Don't  fret,  old  man,  it's 
all  right — now  that  you  are  here." 

John  met  the  clear  eyes,  which  seemed  already  to 
reflect  the  peace  of  another  world.  "I  am  so  sorry 
to  behave  like  this,"  he  said  huskily;  "but  it  has  been 
seven  years,  Dick,  and — 

"I  know,"  the  other  interrupted  him,  "and  I  am 
more  changed  than  you  expected."  His  face  did  not 
cloud. 

John  made  no  attempt  to  utter  one  of  those  affec- 
tionate fibs  with  which  the  recording  angel  has  filled 
so  many  pages.  They  had  always  understood  each 
other. 

"Dick,  why  did  you  not  let  me  know?  You  should 
have  sent  for  me  to  come  home  with  you.  Why,  I 
had  my  passage  taken  to  go  out  to  you  next  week,  for 
all  summer." 

A  quick  flush  rose  in  Dick's  face.  "Really!  Ah,  if 
I  had  only  known!  I  did  write  you,  but  Mary  found 
the  letter  yesterday  in  the  pocket  of  her  winter  coat. 
The  poor  child  was  terribly  cut  up  about  it,  she  so 
rarely  forgets  anything  that  concerns  me.  Oh,  I 
have  so  much  to  talk  to  you  about,  and  it  is  better 


A  SACRED  TRUST  35 

that  I  am  here,  only  we  might  have  had  more  time 
together  over  there.  The  voyage  has  taken  a  good 
deal  out  of  me."  The  long  speech  was  taxing  him 
severely  now. 

"Hand  me  the  little  glass  there,  will  you,  John? 
Miss  Patton  left  it  in  case  of  need,  and  I  think  I  will 
forestall  the  need."  John  rose  and  held  it  to  his  lips. 
He  feared  that  the  need  was  scarcely  forestalled. 

They  were  silent  for  some  time;  then  Dick  said, 
"John,  will  you  sit  here,"  indicating  the  space  beside 
him,  "and  put  your  arm  around  me  as  you  used  to  do 
when  you  were  a  boy?" 

John  complied  with  a  swelling  heart,  and  at  Dick's 
request  to  lift  him  up  a  little,  raised  the  thin  shoul- 
ders in  the  hollow  of  his  encircling  arm  as  easily  as 
he  might  have  lifted  a  baby. 

"What  a  touch  you  have,  John!  You  are  a  natural 
nurse.  I  never  seemed  to  get  over  missing  you  after 
you  left  me  in  Lausanne.  But  I  must  not  let  you  hold 
me  so  for  long.  There  is  a  limit  even  to  your 
strength." 

"You  will  never  reach  its  limit  in  this  way.  I 
could  hold  you  so  all  day.  But  don't  try  to  talk. 
I  know  what  is  uppermost  in  your  mind,  and  we  need 
no  vows  between  us.  You  know  that  so  long  as  I  live" 
— he  gave  each  word  a  solemn  emphasis — "Mary  shall 
be  to  me  all  that  my  little  girl  would  be  to  you  if  our 
cases  were  reversed." 

Dick  answered  him  only  by  a  look. 

"I  wish  she  were  a  boy,"  John  resumed,  with  his 
little  quizzical  smile  to  lighten  the  solemnity  of  the 
promise  he  was  making.  "I  feel  so  inexperienced  with 


36  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

girls,  and  she  is  getting  older  all  the  time.  She  must 
be  over  twelve?" 

"She  will  be  sixteen  next  week,"  Dick  said,  smiling 
brightly  at  the  consternation  his  statement  brought 
to  his  friend's  face.  "But,  John,  dear  old  fellow,  she 
is  the  veriest  child!  Oh,  I  would  like  to  talk  to  you 
about  her  for  hours,  but  I  must  condense.  I  feel  so 
comfortable,  and  so  happy,  it  seems  as  though  my 
strength  were  coming  back!" 

"You  have  been  over- tired,  "John  answered  quickly. 
"  Surely  you  will  rally  in  a  day  or  two."  It  seemed  to 
him  that  Dick's  face  had  already  altered  for  the 
better. 

"Do  you  know,  John, " — how  he  loved  to  repeat  the 
name — "there  is  some  power  in  you  that  I  can't  de- 
scribe. It  is  like  health  itself.  It  will  be  a  great  thing 
to  be  strong  and  well  again,  as  I  have  faith  I  shall ;  but 
— many  men  would  be  willing  to  bear  more  than  I  have 
for  the  sake  of  the  companionship  they  love  best. 
I  know  I  have  been  selfish,  but  I  cannot  make  her 
leave  me  for  long.  She  went  out  for  some  fruit  for  me 
just  before  you  came,  and  I  begged  her  to  take  a  long 
walk  in  this  delicious  air;  but — all  I  can  ever  do  is  beg." 
He  paused  a  moment  out  of  breath.  "Miss  Newlin 
has  promised  to  take  charge  of  her  education,  and  give 
her  a  permanent  home" — John  saw  the  pain  the 
thought  caused  him — "but  all  authority  over  her  per- 
son and  property  is  to  be  left  unreservedly  to  you. 
Catharine  is  living  at  Fern  wood,  you  know,  and  Mary 
would  be  happiest  with  her  till  school  time  comes. 
It  is  close  to  the  city,  so  you  could  look  in  on  her  some- 
times."— His  voice  _broke  utterly,  and  the  first  tears 


A   SACRED   TRUST  37 

he  had  shed  brimmed  over  and  stole  down  his  hollow 
cheeks. 

John's  answer  was  mute  at  first;  then  he  said  husk- 
ily: "I  was  to  have  had  three  uninterrupted  months 
with  you  in  Switzerland.  Please  God  I  shall  have  them 
here;  but," — he  choked  a  little  at  the  difficult  words — 
"if  it  is  not  to  be  with  you  it  shall  be  with 
Mary." 

"Oh,  John,  what  can  I  ever  say,  except  that  it  is 
like  you!  It  makes  my  going  such  a  different  thing. 
You  say  you  don't  understand  girls,  but  you  will 
understand  her." 

"I  suspect  she  won't  stay  many  years  in  my  care 
if  she  is  sixteen;  but"  (seeing  a  shadow  pass  over  the 
invalid's  face)  "married  or  single  it  will  be  all  the 
same  to  me.  As  long  as  I  live,"  he  emphasized  the 
words  again,  "I  shall  always  be  right  on  hand  if  she 
wants  me." 

Words  were  impossible  to  Dick  for  some  minutes; 
then  he  asked  John  to  lay  him  down  again.  "She 
must  be  here  soon,  now,"  he  said.  "I  will  shut  my 
eyes  and  try  to  rest  a  little  first.  Sit  there  by  the 
window.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  feel  you  near!" 

There  was  complete  silence  in  the  room  for  a  while ; 
a  pioneer  fly  buzzed  in  and  out  of  the  open  window, 
and  the  fresh  spring  breeze  stirred  the  muslin  curtains. 
John's  eyes  roved  around  the  simple,  old-fashioned 
room  that  he  remembered  so  well,  and  rested  on  the 
peaceful  face  on  the  bed.  He  felt  the  comfort  he  had 
given,  and  rejoiced;  but  he  was  surprised  at  his  own 
excitement,  and  at  the  bound  his  heart  gave  when  a 
young  girl  turned  in  at  the  gate  and  came  quickly  up 


38  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

the  path,  carrying  a  bunch  of  mock-orange  in  her  hand. 
A  broad  hat  hid  her  face  from  his  height. 

Dick  heard  the  opening  of  the  hall  door  and  the 
nurse's  voice  speaking  below.  His  eyes  were  wide 
and  bright  in  a  moment.  There  was  a  quick  step 
on  the  stair  and  the  object  of  so  much  solicitude  and 
apprehension  entered  like  an  embodiment  of  the  May 
day  outside.  Childlike,  curious  eyes  met  John's 
from  what  seemed  to  him  the  loveliest  face  his  own 
had  ever  looked  upon.  She  checked  her  hurried  pace, 
and  on  a  question  from  the  bed  as  to  whether  she 
did  not  "remember  John  Brown,"  came  to  him  at 
once,  transferring  her  flowers  to  her  left  hand,  and 
holding  her  right  to  him  with  the  ease  of  a  finished 
hostess  or  the  unconsciousness  of  a  little  child.  Noth- 
ing here  of  the  missishness  of  sixteen  that  he  always 
dreaded.  She  smiled  as  he  took  her  hand  and  held 
it  a  moment  in  his  strong  clasp,  but  said  nothing, 
and  turned  at  once  to  her  father. 

"Miss  Carter  sent  you  these,  Father.  Why,  you 
look  better  already!"  Dick  smiled  up  in  her  scruti- 
nizing face,  and  took  possession  of  both  hand  and 
flowers  without  paying  any  attention  to  the 
latter. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Mary,  of  something  that 
is  very  important  to  you.  My  dearest,  John  Brown 
(he  did  not  say  'Mr.  Brown')  has  promised  that — 
when  I — can  be  with  you  no  longer — he  will  take 
care  of  you.  It  makes  me  very  happy,  and  you— 
you  loved  him  when  you  were  a  little  girl.  I  know 
you  will  grow  to  love  him  again — as  much  as  I 
do." 


"I  LOVE  You  Now,"  SHE  SAID. 


A  SACRED  TRUST  39 

When  he  began  to  speak  Mary  turned  full  around, 
and  her  grave,  unwavering  gaze  never  left  John's 
face.  His  eyes  met  hers  without  flinching.  Each 
was  too  deeply  in  earnest  for  self-consciousness.  At 
her  father's  last  word  her  lips  softened  and  trembled. 
She  went  straight  to  where  John  stood  motionless, 
and  lifted  her  face  to  his  with  complete  simplicity; 
and  as  he  bent  his  tall  head  to  meet  her,  she  pressed 
her  fresh  lips  frankly  and  warmly  to  his  thin  cheek. 

"I  love  you  now,"  she  said. 

The  color  mounted  in  a  crimson  flood  to  the  roots 
of  John's  hair,  but  there  was  no  awkwardness  nor 
embarrassment  in  the  'quick  gesture  with  which  he 
drew  her  to  his  side,  and  answered  as  simply: 

"And  I  love  you  now." 

In  his  early  manhood  John  had  learned  to  treat 
the  sea  of  his  emotions  and  passions  in  hardy  Dutch 
fashion,  and  had — half  unconsciously — built  up  a 
formidable  dyke  of  strong  moral  and  religious  pur- 
pose, altruism,  and  intellectuality,  which  had  thus 
far  protected  his  quiet,  active  life  most  effectually 
from  devastating  inroads.  When  some  unforeseen 
wind  of  sentiment  or  passion  made  a  moderate  roar- 
ing outside  he  patiently  strengthened  his  ramparts, 
but  usually  he  thought  little  about  them  and  was 
happy.  With  the  warm  pressure  of  two  innocent 
lips  a  sudden  tidal-wave  swept  clear  over  his  barriers, 
and  he  had  not  even  time  to  consider  whether  it 
might  mean  future  desolation  to  his  peaceful  preserve. 
He  only  knew  that  life  seemed  suddenly  full  of  vital, 
personal  interest. 

As  he  went  home  to  dinner  he  pictured  the  ordered 


40  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

perfection  of  the  scene  that  awaited  him,  and  recalled 
the  comfortable  monotony  of  the  long  years  of  decor- 
ous homeliness  that  stretched  away  into  the  past. 
How  silver  gray  it  all  looked  since  this  rising  sun  had 
begun  to  throw  its  rosy  darts  across  his  horizon. 

Even  the  newly-made  promise  to  Dick — made  with 
a  straight  facing  of  all  it  might  entail — seemed,  like 
the  courageous  bounty  of  St.  Elizabeth,  to  have 
turned  to  roses  in  his  hands;  and  how  should  he 
remember  that  roses  have  thorns! 


CHAPTER  IV 
AN  INHERITED  FRIENDSHIP 

"  A  NOTHER  telegram."  With  this  laconic 
announcement  the  elderly,  one-armed  clerk 
laid  a  little  yellow  envelope  on  John's  desk, 
and  went  out.  Its  kind  were  no  strangers  in  this 
quiet  office  on  Fourth  Street  where  John  carried  on 
an  altruistic  law  practice.  It  was  a  large  if  not 
profitable  practice  (giving  the  word  profitable  its 
usually  accepted  meaning),  for  when,  at  sixteen,  his 
father  died  leaving  him  a  hundred  thousand  of  his 
own,  and  the  prospect  of  his  mother's  two-third  share 
and  the  house,  some  day,  he  had  decided  to  use  his 
faculties  (after  he  had  sufficiently  trained  them)  to 
help  the  "under  dog"  in  the  fight.  His  fortune 
was  not  large  enough  to  suggest  one  kind  of  philan- 
thropy, and  he  never  thought  of  himself  as  a  philan- 
thropist; but  in  spite  of  an  innate  dislike  for  red  tape 
and  musty  precedent,  he  determined  to  study  law, 
and  to  make  it  synonymous  with  justice  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  using  his  quick  grasp  of  a  situation, 
and  marvelously  retentive  memory  in  the  service  of 
those  whose  wrongs  needed  righting,  but  who  had 
not  money  to  pay  for  the  best  quality  of  justice. 
He  could  at  least  give  them  the  best  quality  of  inten- 

(41) 


42  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

tion,  for  even  as  a  boy,  a  "square  deal"  had  been  a 
passion  with  him. 

This  was  the  third  message  that  morning,  and  the 
clock  hands  pointed  only  to  10.15.  John  drew  a 
slim  letter-opener  toward  him,  and,  cutting  it  without 
haste,  quietly  spread  it  out.  The  sight  of  the  few 
words  made  him  start  violently  with  a  pain  he  gave 
himself  no  time  to  entertain.  He  gave  a  glance 
toward  the  clock,  another  at  the  upper  one  of  a  neat 
pile  of  time-tables  conveniently  pigeon-holed,  and 
folded  back  in  a  special  manner;  then  he  made  one 
step  to  his  hat,  and  in  another  moment  was  passing 
through  his  outer  office. 

"I'll  not  be  in  again  to-day.  Please  send  word 
to  my  mother  that  she  need  not  expect  me  home  for 
lunch."  The  last  words  were  uttered  half-way  down 
the  passage.  "I  shall  make  it  if  I  have  luck!"  he 
added  to  himself  as  he  reached  the  street;  and  the 
combination  of  luck  and  long  legs  enabled  him  to 
"make  it." 

Only  three  days  had  elapsed  since  the  visit  recorded 
in  the  last  chapter.  The  following  afternoon  had  been 
spent  again  with  the  invalid,  who  had  seemed 
decidedly  stronger,  and  able  to  enter  upon  questions  of 
vital  importance  to  them  both.  Mary  had  been  in  the 
room  when  John  got  there,  but  had  gone  away  almost 
immediately,  and  he  had  not  had  another  glimpse 
of  her.  His  parting  words  to  Dick  had  been  of  regret 
that  the  next  day  must  be  given  to  his  mother's 
business;  "but  I  will  be  down  as  early  as  I  can  on 
Saturday,  and  next  week — ."  The  words  had  been 
full  of  expectation,  now  never  to  be  fulfilled. 


AN   INHERITED   FRIENDSHIP  43 

The  kindly  old  lady  on  the  opposite  seat  wondered 
what  great  trouble  was  bowing  the  shoulders  and 
lining  the  rigid  face  of  the  big  man  who  looked  so 
like  Lincoln. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  he  was  striding  up  the 
path  he  had  watched  so  anxiously  three  days  before, 
for  the  first  glimpse  of  the  child  who  was  to  be  his 
one  of  these  days.  Who  could  have  foreseen  that  the 
day  would  come  so  soon!  How  could  he  bear  to 
look  on  that  bright  face  with  the  great  change  upon  it! 

Miss  Patton,  the  nurse,  saw  him  coming,  and 
opened  the  door  before  he  rang.  Her  kindly  face 
showed  traces  of  distress.  "It  was  quite  sudden, 
and  very  peaceful,"  she  said  in  an  intentionally 
lowered  voice,  pointing  to  the  door  of  the  room  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  next  Dick's.  "She  was  with 
him  when  the  end  came  and  I  couldn't  make  her 
leave  him  till  I  had  to  fairly  drive  her  out.  She  is 
much  too  quiet;  she  hasn't  cried  at  all,  and  she  wrote 
the  telegram  to  you  herself.  But  she  will  hear  me!" — • 
she  interrupted  herself  in  a  still  lower  voice. 

John  mounted  the  stairway  softly,  his  mind  full 
of  his  last  visit;  but  all  sense  of  his  own  irreparable 
loss  was  wiped  out  by  the  sight  of  the  pathetic  figure 
that  had  risen  from  the  sofa-cushions  at  the  sound  of 
his  step,  and  met  him  just  within  the  open  door. 
An  expression  of  relief  that  was  almost  joy  welcomed 
him,  and,  with  one  mutual  impulse,  she  was  in  his 
arms,  her  face  buried  on  his  breast,  and  he  held  her 
in  a  close  embrace  more  eloquent  than  words  of  that 
tenderness  and  protection  to  be  exerted  for  her 
henceforth. 


44  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"I  didn't  think  you  could  get  here  so  soon!"  she 
said  brokenly.  Her  breath  came  in  short  sobs  which 
she  made  a  brave  effort  to  control. 

The  sudden,  unexpected,  loosening  of  the  tension 
of  waiting,  loosened  with  it  her  unnatural  self-control. 
John's  own  breath  came  pantingly. 

"No,  no,  dear  child,  cry  it  out!"  he  said  huskily, 
as  he  bent  and  softly  kissed  the  parting  of  the  di- 
sheveled brown  hair.  His  words  and  caress  opened 
the  flood-gates,  and  Miss  Patton  moved  away  from 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  where  she  had  almost  involun- 
tarily waited,  and  went  with  a  satisfied  smile  and 
wet  eyes  to  unburden  herself  to  Susan  in  the  kitchen, 
though  that  honest  maid-of-all-work  was  but  a  new 
acquaintance. 

How  long  John  held  the  sobbing  child  he  had  no 
idea.  His  dyke  was  down  now  to  the  last  stone,  but 
he  did  not  know  it;  nor  did  he  think  of  another 
dyke  whose  necessity  he  would  soon  begin  to  foresee 
and  whose  maintenance  was  to  be  at  the  cost  of  years 
of  "eternal  vigilance."  Long  after  the  painful  sobs 
had  ceased,  little  by  little,  and  the  swollen,  tear- 
stained  face  was  lying  quietly  just  over  his  quick- 
beating  heart,  he  still  held  her  close  in  the  pregnant 
silence  which  had  thus  far  been  the  main  factor  in 
their  extraordinary  friendship.  Then  she  drew  him 
into  the  next  room,  and  together  they  stood  beside 
the  still  form  on  the  bed. 

How  young  he  looked,  and  how  noble  the  lines 
of  lip  and  brow!  The  ravages  of  disease,  the  very 
emaciation  that  had  so  shocked  John  a  few  days  ago, 
were  smoothed  away  by  that  transforming  finger 


AN  INHERITED   FRIENDSHIP  45 

of  death.  Even  the  slight  paraphernalia  of  the  grim 
visitant  could  not  detract  from  the  majesty  of  the 
picture. 

Mary  loosed  her  hand  from  his  clasp,  and  fell  on 
her  knees  beside  the  bed.  She  did  not  cry  now,  but 
the  droop  of  the  whole  figure,  the  abandonment  to 
a  crushing  weight  beyond  her  power  of  realization, 
seemed  to  John's  mind  less  like  a  desolate  child  than 
a  young  mother  whose  one  treasure  has  been  snatched 
from  her.  He  recalled  Dick's  words  regarding  the 
weight  of  responsibility  this  child-woman  had  been 
carrying.  He  remembered  that  telegram — indeed 
it  had  never  been  absent  from  his  consciousness  for 
a  moment  on  the  short  journey:  "Father  has  gone. 
Can  you  come?"  All  his  great  body  yearned  to  shoul- 
der her  burdens,  to  insert  his  strength  between  her 
and  all  that  was  still  to  come;  to  make  the  rest  of 
her  girlhood  care-free  and  happy.  Yet  what  availed 
his  strength  or  purpose  in  the  face  of  a  separation 
such  as  this — the  rending  of  such  a  tie  as  this ! 

The  tears  were  running  down  his  face,  but  he  made 
no  attempt  to  comfort  her  now.  He  felt  that  she 
was  far  from  him,  on  the  path  that  each  must  tread 
alone.  Gradually  a  strong  sense  of  Dick's  spiritual 
presence  beside  him  recalled  him  to  his  new  responsi- 
bility, and  the  keeping  of  his  promise.  He  hesitated 
a  moment,  but  the  sound  of  wheels  that  stopped  out- 
side made  him  hesitate  no  longer.  Without  a  word 
he  stooped  and  lifted  Mary  to  her  feet  and  held  her 
as  before.  She  showed  no  surprise,  and  made  no 
protest.  Her  strong  spirit  was  acknowledging  a 
stronger  one;  and  if  he  had  but  known  it,  the  display 


46  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

of  unusual  physical  force  went  home  to  her  heart  as 
perhaps  nothing  else  could  have  at  the  moment. 

John  told  himself — not  in  words,  for  he  rarely 
thought  in  words — that  he  had  lived  more  in  the  past 
four  days  than  in  all  the  four  and  thirty  years  of  his 
previous  existence.  Not  since  he  had  looked  on  Mar- 
garet lying  thus,  cold  and  quiet,  had  his  heart  been 
so  wrung  with  pain;  and  never,  he  knew,  at  any 
time,  had  he  known  the  sweetness  of  this —  His  eyes 
came  back  from  the  face  on  the  pillow  to  the  face 
half -buried  against  his  arm.  "Mary,"  he  said  very 
low,  "no  one  can  ever  take  anything  of  his  place  with 
you,  but  I  should  like  to  fill  as  big  a  place  of  my  own 
as  you  will  let  me."  She  tried  to  speak,  but  no  words 
came,  and  he  went  on:  "All  that  you  tell  me  will 
be  safe  with  me,  and  you  can  never  ask  me  anything 
that  I  shall  not  want  to  do." 

For  all  answer  she  lifted  his  hand  and  pressed  her 
cheek  to  the  palm.  No  words  could  have  told  more 
clearly  of  gratitude,  and  trust,  and  awakened  affec- 
tion. What  feelings  the  little  gesture,  so  well-known 
to  her  father,  awakened  now  the  rugged  face  bent 
over  her  did  not  show.  At  least  they  were  not  too 
strong  to  prevent  John's  quick  ear  from  detecting 
voices  on  the  stair.  Still  holding  her  close,  he  opened 
wide  the  door  to  the  hall  and  drew  her  into  the  adjoin- 
ing room.  As  the  door  closed  behind  them  he  seated 
her  beside  him  on  the  enormous  old  sofa  which  he  had 
always  loved  as  a  boy;  then  he  took  one  cold  hand 
in  his  warm  one,  and  said  with  the  assurance  of  ac- 
knowledged authority,  or  long  intimacy:  "Now  tell 
me."  And  she  did.  The  sad  little  recital  was  given 


AN  INHERITED   FRIENDSHIP  47 

in  few  and  simple  words,  her  tear-stained  face  lifted 
to  his;  but  his  part  was  to  come.  There  was  business 
that  he  must  speak  of;  arrangements  that  he  could 
not  make  without  consulting  her.  She  wanted  to 
leave  everything  to  him.  "He  knew  so  well  what 
her  father  liked,  and  still  more  what  he  disliked." 
But  there  was  another  matter  that  John  found  it 
harder  to  enter  upon. 

"I  must  go  up  to  town  this  afternoon  to  attend 
to  things,"  he  said,  "but  not  for  long.  I  will  be  here 
for  the  night.  This  sofa  is  a  good  old  friend  and  just 
my  size.  But — there  are  some  things  that  I  am 
afraid  to  undertake  for  you,  and  it  is  Saturday.  I 
will  send  a  telegram  at  once  for  Catharine,  and  when 
she  comes  you  could  send  Miss  Patton  in  to  do  any 
shopping  for  you, — or,  I  will  try — to  do  my  best." 
He  spoke  almost  shyly. 

Mary  clasped  her  free  fingers  around  those  that 
held  her  other  hand.  It  was  all  the  expression  her 
gratitude  found;  but  after  a  short  pause  she  said 
very  low:  "Mr.  Brown,  do  you  think  I  ought  to 
wear  mourning  for  Father?  I  would  so  much  rather 
not." 

Surprise  took  away,  for  the  moment,  all  John's 
power  of  speech.  The  child  who  had  just  cried  her 
heart  out  in  his  arms  was  transformed  to  a  dignified 
woman  with  views  of  her  own,  and  those,  exceptional 
ones.  Before  he  found  his  voice  she  went  on  quickly: 
"Father  didn't  approve  of  it, — and  I  mustn't  mourn 
for  him.  He  is  well  now,  and  happy;  only  I  can't 
think  of  his  being  quite  happy  anywhere — without 
me." 


48  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

Her  face  was  indistinct  to  John.  He  turned  away 
his  own.  The  muscles  of  his  chest  and  throat  ached 
fiercely.  Then  he  braced  himself  for  his  first  paternal 
homily. 

"My  dear  Mary,"  he  said,  "I  think  your  father 
was  quite  right,  and  I  should  be  the  last  to  ask  you 
to  disregard  his  wishes, — but,  there  are  some  things 
that  are  accepted  customs,  and — where  no  principle 
is  involved — I  think  a  young  girl  is  happier —  The 
wondering  eyes  (were  they  gray,  or  green,  or  hazel?) 
fixed  so  intently  on  his,  made  John  stumble  hopelessly, 
and  lose  the  thread  of  his  discourse. 

"But  it  seems  to  me  there  is  a  principle,"  she  ven- 
tured hesitatingly. 

"And  I  would  be  true  to  it,"  he  said  quickly, 
undoing  his  previous  advice  in  a  flash.  "Your 
father's  daughter  ought  to  have  courage  to  stand  by 
her  principles — but  you  will  find  life  harder." 

He  put  his  arm  impulsively  round  her  as  though 
he  would  shield  her  from  unsympathetic  comment. 
His  thoughts  flew  to  his  mother.  He  knew  how  she 
would  regard  this  "freak,"  and  he  began  to  see  break- 
ers ahead.  He  had  come  to  that  parting  of  the  ways 
where  a  man  must  take  sides,  and  what  were  his 
mother's  chances  against  that  head,  full,  no  doubt, 
of  Dick's  eccentric  ideas,  which  seemed  to  find  its 
blue  serge  pillow  so  comfort-giving  a  resting  place? 
Another  long  silence.  They  were  making  rapid 
strides  along  the  road  to  mutual  understanding. 
Miss  Patton's  call  to  lunch  startled  them  to  their 
feet. 

What  a  man  this  was !    The  nurse  felt  that  a  weight 


AN  INHERITED  FRIENDSHIP          49 

had  been  lifted  from  her  shoulders,  and  things  were 
not  so  tragic  after  all.  She  hardly  marveled  at  Mary's 
attitude  to  him  now,  though  she  knew  how  short 
their  acquaintance  was,  and  she  had  always  found 
Mary  little  inclined  to  defer  to  anyone  unless  it  were 
her  father. 

"Mr.  Farnham  knew  what  he  was  about,"  she  said 
to  Susan,  as  she  helped  with  the  dishes  after  the  sim- 
ple lunch  was  finished — it  could  hardly  be  said  to 
have  been  eaten.  "Any  girl  might  be  happy  to  be 
left  in  charge  of  a  man  like  that!" 

Susan  grunted  something  that  seemed  to  be  meant 
for  assent.  "I  suppose  he'll  take  her  to  live  with 
him  as  soon  as  things  get  straightened  out  here?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  made  free  to  ask  that,  and  she  said  his 
mother  mightn't  want  her,  and  she  is  to  go  to  a  friend 
who  keeps  a  school.  She's  going  now  to  her  old 
nurse  who  lives  in  the  country,  somewhere  out  of 
Philadelphia.  She  was  with  them  from  the  time 
Miss  Mary  was  a  baby,  and  wouldn't  have  married 
the  man  she  was  engaged  to  if  Miss  Mary  hadn't 
found  it  out  and  told  her  father.  He  made  her  go. 
Miss  Mary  was  about  eleven;  too  old  for  a  nurse 
anyhow;  but  she  told  me  she'd  often  cried  for  her 
when  her  father  didn't  know.  I  guess  he  did  though, 
for  there  wasn't  much  he  missed  where  she  was  con- 
cerned. He  was  the  patientest  man  I  ever  nursed." 
(She  wiped  her  eyes,  unaffectedly.)  "The  nurse 
didn't  have  long  to  enjoy  her  married  life  either,  for 
her  husband  died  a  year  ago,  I  believe." 

"Mr.  Farnham 's  wife  died  when  Miss  Mary  was 
a  baby,  didn't  she?" 

4 


50  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"Law,  no,  she  ran  away  and  left  him.  I  only 
found  it  out  accidentally,  and  I  don't  believe  he  ever 
told  her"  with  a  motion  of  her  head  toward  the 
upper  regions.  "She  died  a  year  or  two  after,  in 
childbirth  I  did  hear  say,  and  she  had  some  relations, 
but  of  course  Mr.  Farnham  wouldn't  want  Miss 
Mary  to  know  them." 

"Good  land!  Well,  dyin'  served  her  right!  What 
kind  of  a  woman  could  she  have  been  to  leave  such  a 
nice  husband  and  such  a  pretty  baby;  for  she's  about 
the  best  lookin'  girl  ever  I  saw.  I  expect  the 
mother  was  one  o'  them  handsome  hussies  that  turn 
so  many  men's  heads,"  and  Susan  looked  volumes 
on  the  infatuation  of  men  and  the  frailties  of  women. 

Meantime  the  object  of  their  discussion  was  sit- 
ting idly  with  her  head  against  the  frame  of  the  win- 
dow, and  her  eyes  fixed  on  space.  The  clock  strik- 
ing four  roused  her  from  her  reverie,  and  she  started 
up.  "I  will  go  down  to  the  parlor  window  where  I 
can  see  him  when  he  comes, "  she  thought,  and  John's 
heart  gave  a  bound  when,  a  half-hour  later,  his  eyes 
encountered  the  waiting  figure  framed  in  the  ivy- 
grown  embrasure  of  the  window.  Almost  on  his 
heels  came  Catharine,  and  it  gave  him  unspeakable 
relief  to  see  the  motherly  arms  about  her  beloved 
"child,"  and  hear  the  familiar,  tender  questioning, 
the  simple  expressions  of  grief  natural  to  the  true 
woman. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  NATURE  OF  THE  TRUST 

THREE  days  later,  the  last  sad  rites  performed, 
they  left  the  old  house,  so  full  of  sweet  and 
melancholy  memories,  and  John  escorted 
Catharine  and  Mary  to  the  little  cottage  at  Fernwood. 

Mary  had  been  very  quiet,  and  even  cheerful,  on 
the  short  journey,  and  showed  an  interest  in  looking 
over  the  neat  premises,  with  a  trim  garden  behind 
the  house,  and  scrap  of  lawn  about  it;  in  examining 
the  rooms,  filled  with  many  souvenirs  of  bygone  days ; 
and  in  arranging  some  of  her  possessions  in  the  spot- 
less little  chamber  which  was  to  be  hers.  But  when 
John  rose  to  go,  with  an  assurance  of  his  return  next 
day,  she  suddenly  clung  to  him  in  such  a  passion  of 
tears  that  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  leave  her. 
It  was  only  on  a  hint  from  Catharine,  who  was  too 
sweet-natured  to  be  hurt  by  this  display  of  feeling 
for  another,  that  Mary  finally  told  him  to  go,  and  even 
tried  to  reassure  him  by  a  smile. 

Dinner  was  over  when  he  reached  home,  and  his 
mother  received  him  with  a  rather  aggrieved  expres- 
sion, without,  however,  uttering  any  word  of  reproach 
even  when  she  found  that  he  must  have  finished  his 
escort  of  his  new  ward  hours  before.  She  had  made 
some  excuse  for  not  going  to  the  funeral  that  morn- 

(51) 


52  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

ing,  as  she  had  found  good  reasons  for  not  "intruding 
upon  Mary's  grief"  before;  and  John  felt  a  secret  relief 
that  for  the  time  being,  they  were  not  to  be  brought 
together.  He  was  not  given  to  self-analysis,  and  per- 
haps if  he  had  been,  he  would  not  have  understood 
why  he  dreaded  his  mother's  eye  upon  Mary  just  yet. 
He  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  feeling  itself,  but  was 
thankful  to  Mrs.  Brown  for  asking  only  perfunctory 
questions.  Her  positive  dislike  for  Dick  had  been 
something  entirely  incomprehensible  to  John,  and  he 
was  instinctively  on  the  defensive  now  with  regard 
to  Mary.  What  would  his  mother  think  of  the  atti- 
tude in  which  he  already  stood  to  the  child?  To  him 
it  seemed  so  natural  that  she  should  turn  to  him  as 
the  man  whom  her  father  had  most  loved  and  trusted, 
and  to  whom  he  had  entrusted  her,  and  that  the  same 
free-masonry  of  spiritual  kinship  which  had  knit  him 
so  closely  to  Dick  in  his  boyhood,  should  develop  at 
once  between  himself  and  this  girlish  epitome  of 
Dick.  In  the  forcing-house  of  intimate  intercourse 
of  these  few  days,  every  opinion  she  expressed — or 
left  unexpressed — every  unstudied  show  of  emotion, 
had  laid  her  heart  before  him  like  an  open  book,  in 
which  each  page  he  turned  deepened  the  interest 
and  delight  of  the  study.  He  knew  that  he  was  only 
in  the  very  early  chapters;  what  those  closed  pages 
would  contain,  no  one  could  prophesy;  but  nothing 
false  or  mean,  that  he  would  vouch  for,  to  all  the  world ! 
And  yet,  he  knew  that  this  loving,  jealously  tender 
mother  of  his,  so  kindly,  cordially  open  toward 
those  whom  she  understood,  and  liked,  could  close 
her  nature  like  a  vise  against  those  who  were  anti- 


THE  NATURE  OF  THE  TRUST    53 

pathetic  to  her;  and  an  unerring  instinct  told  him 
that  the  first  sight  of  Mary  would  have  closed  it, 
even  if  the  conviction  of  an  imposition  put  upon  her 
beloved  "boy"  had  not  already  set  the  seal  of  her  dis- 
approval on  all  that  concerned  his  charge.  John  knew, 
too,  that  she  was  hoping  for  his  company  to  North- 
east Harbor,  now  that  his  immediate  duties  here  were 
over;  knew  it  as  well  as  though  she  had  spoken  in  the 
plainest  language;  and  that  she  would  confidently 
expect  him  to  spend  a  considerable  part  of  his  vacation 
with  her,  now  that  his  trip  to  Switzerland  had  been 
given  up.  He  also  knew  that  he  would  not  have 
thought  of  doing  so,  even  if  it  had  been  his  dearest 
wish.  Had  it  not  all  been  arranged  long  ago,  even 
to  her  journey  up  in  the  company  of  intimate  friends? 
Perhaps  he  ought  to  go  as  far  as  Boston  with  her,  and 
see  her  on  the  Bar  Harbor  train?  He  had  certainly 
meant  to  do  that  before  he  sailed,  but  now,  the  time 
necessary  for  the  journey  seemed  ages  long! 

His  mother's  train  left  Boston  at  8.00  A.  M.  There 
was  no  way  of  shortening  his  time  of  absence  by 
traveling  at  night.  The  pain  and  sweetness  of  that 
last  hour  in  the  little  parlor  at  Fernwood  were  still 
quivering  through  his  whole  frame.  He  felt  his 
firmness  and  resolve  slipping  from  him.  "Of  course 
I  shall  go  to  Boston  with  you,  Mother,"  he  said  with 
almost  startling  suddenness;  he  felt  that  he  must 
commit  himself  at  once,  and  shut  off  all  avenues  for 
back-sliding.  "I  wish  you  might  go  all  the  way,  and 
spend  a  few  days,"  Mrs.  Brown  found  courage  to  say. 
"Now  that  the  child  is  settled  with  her  nurse,  you  need 
have  no  concern  about  her  for  a  while,  and  I  suppose 


54  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

you  won't  have  to  attend  to  any  business  connected 
with  your  executorship  for  a  few  days?" 

"Why,  Mother,  of  course  there  will  be  a  great 
many  things  to  attend  to  at  once,  and  for  some  time 
to  come,"  he  exclaimed  almost  indignantly.  Then, 
his  native  honesty  forcing  the  words  from  him, 
"And  I  should  not  like  to  go  so  far  away  from  Mary 
this  summer." 

"This  summer!  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are 
to  give  up  your  whole  vacation  and  spend  the  summer 
in  the  city  looking  after  a  child  who —  '  she  checked 
herself.  "If  Miss  Newlin  is  going  to  take  her,  why 
doesn't  she  go  to  her  at  once?  It  would  be  a  much 
more  fitting  arrangement  than  leaving  her  with  a 
servant,  I  don't  care  how  faithful  she  may  be." 
Mrs.  Brown's  "she's"  almost  tripped  up  her  mean- 
ing. 

"She  has  not  seen  much  of  Miss  Newlin  yet," 
John  answered  gently,  "and  she  needs  familiar  faces 
about  her  now,  and  the  mothering  Catharine  can  give 
her.  She  is  to  go  to  Miss  Newlin  a  week  before  school 
opens,  and,  meantime,  they  will  meet  occasionally 
and  get  better  acquainted."  There  was  a  suspicious 
tremor  in  his  voice,  in  spite  of  his  effort  to  make 
it  matter-of-fact. 

"Well  your  face  wasn't  familiar  to  her  a  few  days 
ago;  but,  by  this  time,  it  must  be.  Who  got  her 
clothes  for  her?" 

"If  you  mean  her  mourning,  she  is  not  going  to  wear 
any,"  he  said,  with  some  trepidation. 

"I  suppose  that  was  her  father's  request,"  Mrs. 
Brown  said  with  ominous  gentleness,  as  who  should 


THE  NATURE  OF  THE  TRUST    55 

say,  "You  cannot  surprise  me  with  anything  from  that 
source." 

"No,"  John  said  steadily,  "I  think  Dick  made 
no  request  about  it,  but  she  has  been  constantly 
with  him,  and  knows  his  feelings  on  most  sub- 
jects." 

"And  do  you  think  it  wise  to  let  a  child  of  her  age 
decide  such  questions?" 

John  had  given  his  mother  his  own  impression  of 
Mary's  age,  before  going  to  Germantown,  and  had 
never  corrected  his  statement  since  finding  out  his 
mistake.  It  had  never  seemed  necessary  to  mention 
the  subject.  Now,  however,  he  felt  himself  guilty 
of  absolute  duplicity  when  he  let  her  remark  go  un- 
challenged, but  he  was  a  coward  in  the  face  of  Mary's 
sixteen  years.  His  mother  would  inevitably  look  on 
her  as  a  young  lady,  and  how  could  he  make  her  under- 
stand? It  was  suddenly  laid  bare  to  his  accusing 
conscience  that  he  had  a  reason,  and  what  that 
reason  was,  for  wishing  to  postpone  the  meeting 
between  the  two.  It  was  his  turn  to  dread  his  mother's 
eye,  and  the  sugaring  of  his  strawberries  seemed  to 
require  very  close  attention,  as  he  remarked,  rather 
lamely,  that  he  had  never  thought  the  wearing  of 
mourning  a  matter  of  any  importance,  it  was  a  ques- 
tion of  feeling  only. 

There  was  a  short  pause  in  which  conscience  put  in 
some  solid  work;  then  he  said  in  as  matter-of-fact 
a  voice  as  he  could  command:  "I  was  mistaken  about 
her  age,  Mother,  and  perhaps  I  gave  you  a  wrong 
impression.  She  is  nearly  sixteen;  and  though  she  is 
entirely  a  child  in  her  ways,  she  has  a  very  mature 


56  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

judgment  in  matters  of  principle  and  feeling."  Mrs. 
Brown  said  nothing. 

"I  can't  tell  how  things  may  turn  out  later;"  he 
calmly  changed  the  subject,  feeling  the  look  his 
mother  gave  him,  even  if  he  did  not  see  it,  "nor 
what  there  may  be  to  do.  Of  course  Dick's  property 
is  all  left  to  Mary,  with  provision  for  her  education 
and  immediate  needs;  but  it  is  in  trust,  not  only  till 
her  majority,  but  for  life — to  revert  to  her  children 
if  she  have  any — and  I  am  sole  trustee.  It  is  not  a 
large  estate,  and  Dick  wanted  me  to  do  as  I  thought 
best  about  selling  the  old  house  or  renting  it.  He 
left  a  generous  bequest  of  five  thousand  each  to  the 
cousin  who  has  lived  in  the  house,  and  to  Catharine, 
Mary's  nurse.  In  the  event  of  Mary's  death  without 
heirs,  the  property  reverts  to  me,  with  the  informal 
understanding  that  I  am  to  use  it  for  the  benefit  of 
girls  who  are  left  alone  in  the  world,  and  have  a  living 
to  make;  and  I  am  to  leave  it  where  I  think  it  will 
help  most." 

Mrs.  Brown  showed  her  appreciation  of  the  con- 
fidence reposed  in  her,  and  was,  moreover,  touched 
by  the  confidence  shown  in  John.  She  spoke  with 
cordial  approval  of  the  will,  and  especially  of  the  wis- 
dom of  not  giving  Mary  control  of  her  money  when  she 
came  of  age.  "Dick  Farnham  knew  by  experience 
that  no  power  can  prevent  her  throwing  herself  away 
on  a  rascal,  if  one  happens  to  take  her  fancy,  and  he 
has  had  the  sense  to  guard  against  her  coming  to  want 
through  her  own  fault.  Is  she  like  her  mother? 
You  said  she  was  very  handsome.  Is  Mary 
pretty?" 


THE  NATURE  OF  THE  TRUST    57 

"Yes,  she  looks  a  good  deal  like  her  mother  as  I 
remember  her,"  John  admitted  as  though  unwillingly. 

"And  is  she  likely  to  be  as  beautiful?"  Mrs  Brown 
persisted. 

"She  is  far  more  beautiful  now."  Again  the  words 
seemed  rather  wrung  from  him  than  volunteered. 
The  voice  was  without  enthusiasm. 

"H'm!"  A  very  pregnant  exclamation,  though 
hardly  uttered  aloud.  "I  am  afraid  she  is  likely  to 
give  you  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  John.  People  are 
always  piling  their  troubles  on  your  shoulders;  but 
this  is  by  far  the  biggest  load  you  have  ever  had  to 
carry.  Miss  Newlin  is  a  fine  woman,  and  a  good 
church-woman.  She  will  teach  her  good  morals, 
and  sound  religious  beliefs,  besides  giving  her  a  good 
education  and  good  manners.  I  suppose  she  is  very 
backward,  as  she  hasn't  been  to  school?" 

"I  am  going  to  look  into  that  a  little,  myself,  before 
consulting  with  Miss  Newlin.  She,  poor  woman,  is 
so  overworked  just  now,  with  their  closing  exercises, 
that  she  has  only  been  able  to  see  Mary  once.  She 
was  out  for  a  little  while  yesterday,  but  she  could  not 
even  get  to  the  funeral  to-day.  Mary  saw  something 
of  her  in  Lausanne,  several  years  ago,  and  took  to  her 
so  kindly  that  it  settled  the  question  of  her  schooling 
in  Dick's  mind.  He  told  me  he  would  have  brought 

her  over  a  year  ago,  and  settled  at ,  near  the  school, 

so  that  Mary  could  attend,  as  a  day  scholar;  but  his 
doctor  absolutely  forbade  his  thinking  of  it.  It  was 
this  same  Dr.  Holman  who  crossed  over  with  him 
this  year  when  he  found  that  Dick  was  determined 
to  come  at  all  hazards.  He  suspected  that  the  end 


58  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

was  not  far  off,  but  had  no  idea  how  soon  it  would 
come.  He  had  come  at  a  great  sacrifice  of  time 
(which  Dick  made  good  as  far  as  money  went)  and  he 
had  to  go  back  at  once,  but  if  he  had  only  known  the 
outcome,  he  would  have  waited  over  at  least  one 
steamer.  He  sailed  from  New  York  on  Saturday 
morning  without  knowing  that — 

John  choked,  and  it  was  some  time  before  he 
resumed:  "Miss  Newlin  is  very  much  in  need  of  rest, 
and  is  to  go  off  somewhere  (I  forget  where)  as  soon  as 
school  closes — on  the  eighth,  I  think  she  said.  She 
would  be  willing  to  take  Mary,  but  Dick  thought  she 
would  be  happier  with  Catharine,  and  I  promised  him 
that  I  would  be  on  hand  to  do  what  I  could." 

His  mother  did  not  dare  to  express  all  the  disappoint- 
ment and  disapproval  she  felt  at  his  thus  "sacrificing" 
himself.  She  knew  it  would  be  useless,  at  present. 
Mrs.  Brown  was  one  of  those  women  who,  with  a 
commanding  presence,  an  imperious  temper,  and  really 
good  executive  ability,  combine  a  very  dependent 
and  timid  nature,  that  always  surprises  those  who 
find  it  out.  Though  not  by  nature  either  tolerant 
or  loving,  she  was  capable  of  great  kindness  and 
generosity  toward  those  who  touched  her  sympathies, 
and  of  intense  affection  for  those  who  belonged  to  her. 
She  had  made  her  husband's  every  wish  her  law,  and 
felt  that  she  would  sacrifice  anything  in  the  world 
for  this  adored  son;  but  there  were  two  things  that 
she  never  even  considered  sacrificing — the  first  place 
in  his  heart,  and  his  constant  companionship.  They 
were  her  natural,  and  inalienable,  right.  The  very 
thought  of  his  leaving  her  for  a  visit  to  Dick  in  Europe 


THE  NATURE  OF  THE  TRUST    59 

had  several  times  been  enough  to  fret  her  into  so 
real  an  attack  of  ill  health  that  he  had  each  time  given 
up  the  plan.  To  do  her  jus  dee,  it  never  occurred  to 
her  that  John  could  be  so  happy  anywhere  as  with  her, 
and  she  spared  no  pains  to  satisfy  every  creature  want 
to  which  man  is  heir.  That  this  particular  man  was 
somewhat  indifferent  to  creature  comforts,  and  had  a 
big  hungry  heart  and  soul  beyond  her  comprehension, 
was  a  fact  that  she  always  partly,  but  never  fully, 
realized.  The  half  acknowledgment  of  it  was  the 
most  real  pain  she  knew,  and  yet  it  did  not  prevent 
her  fretting,  and  worrying  him  in  an  infinite  variety 
of  ways.  She  resented  the  escape  from  her  supremacy 
of  even  a  part  of  his  nature;  and  was  jealously  on  the 
alert  for  rivals  in  his  interests  and  affections. 

She  had  done  her  utmost  to  spoil  him,  as  a  child, 
but  the  material  in  hand  was  incapable  of  being 
spoiled.  George  Raymond  had  lately  described  him 
as  "six  feet  and  a  half  of  pure  gold,  and  perfect 
gentleman,"  and  the  child  had  been  father  of  the  man. 
He  was  not  "goody,"  he  was  just  good.  Honest, 
bright,  unselfish,  full  of  fun,  intensely  alive  to  all  that 
was  beautiful  and  good,  as  well  as  to  all  that  was 
incongruous  or  droll;  quickly  kindled  to  indignation 
at  injustice,  or  enthusiasm  for  the  right;  the  only 
fault  that  either  father  or  mother  could  find  in  him 
was  that  he  lacked  "a  proper  spirit";  he  was  "too 
tame."  "I  don't  understand  him,"  Mr.  Brown  had  once 
remarked  to  a  friend.  "He  has  sense  enough  to  know 
when  he's  imposed  upon,  but  not  spunk  enough  to 
resent  it.  He  isn't  a  coward,  but  he  seems  to  lack 
red  blood  somewhere!" 


60  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

When,  in  his  fourteenth  year,  Rev.  Phillips  Brooks, 
who  was  soon  to  resign  the  charge  of  Holy  Trinity 
parish,  asked  him,  in  his  mother's  presence,  about 
joining  the  Church,  John  instantly  acquiesced. 
"I  don't  know  that  I  can  ever  understand  the  Creeds, 
or  the  catechism,"  he  had  said  simply,  "but  I  should 
like  to  be  as  much  like  Christ  as  I  can." 

Mr.  Brooks  had  answered  him  only  by  a  look  and 
a  warm  handclasp,  reserving  further  conversation  for 
a  tete-a-tete;  but  Mrs.  Brown  had  been  somewhat 
abashed.  No  one  could  accuse  John  of  conceit  or 
presumption,  but  she  wondered  whether  the  rector's 
silence  did  not  mean  that  he  considered  such  an  idea 
slightly  sacrilegious.  She  was  one  of  the  many  staunch 
admirers  of  the  great  preacher,  who  listened  with 
rapt  attention  to  his  every  utterance,  feeling  sure  that 
they  endorsed  his  every  sentiment,  and  never  in  the 
least  understanding  what  were  his  real  beliefs.  She 
rarely  spoke  to  John  of  religious  questions,  beyond 
suggesting  the  outward  observance  of  certain  forms 
and  ceremonies;  but  she  was  always  conscious  of 
that  under-world  of  thought  and  feeling  which  she 
could  not  read,  and  to  which  he  rarely  gave  expression. 
Was  it  wonderful  that  Dick  Farnham,  who  did  under- 
stand him  well,  should  have  said  his  "Nunc  Dimit- 
tis"  from  his  heart  of  hearts,  with  the  sound  of  this 
man's  promise  in  his  ear,  and  the  sight  of  this  man's 
arm  around  his  cherished  child? 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  GULF  OF  YEARS 

CATHARINE'S  cottage  was  only  five  minutes 
distant  from  the  railway  station  on  the  shaded 
country  road.  There  was  no  village,  properly 
speaking,  at  the  time  of  which  I  write;  for  the  hand- 
ful of  houses,  scattered  on  both  sides  of  the  track, 
could  not  have  been  dignified  by  any  such  name. 
Though  inside  the  city  limits,  and  not  far  from  several 
flourishing  suburbs,  its  rural  loveliness  had  thus  far 
been  spared  the  encroachments  of  the  army  of  city 
commuters,  so  soon  to  gain  possession  there.  The 
land  about  it  was  held  by  people  tenacious  of  their 
old  properties,  and  jealous  of  their  privacy.  The  old, 
long  established  families  were  breaking  up,  however, 
and  it  would  not  be  many  years  before  this  secluded 
little  section  would  follow  the  example  of  its  neighbors. 
As  John  turned  a  curve  in  the  road  that  brought  the 
house  into  view,  his  eager  eyes  were  gladdened  by  the 
sight  of  a  girlish  figure  coming  quickly  toward  him 
along  the  path.  She  seemed  very  subdued,  however, 
as,  the  first  greeting  over,  they  moved  hand  in  hand 
toward  the  cottage.  "  Mr.  Brown,  I  was  sorry  I  made 
you  miss  your  train  last  night,"  she  said  finally,  the 
tears  sounding  again  in  her  voice.  John  only  answered 
by  a  close  pressure  of  the  hand  he  held,  but  she  was 

(61) 


62  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

satisfied.  She  made  no  further  apology.  She  glanced 
once  or  twice,  with  some  curiosity,  at  a  bulky  parcel 
he  was  carrying  in  his  left  hand,  but  she  asked  no 
questions.  He  saw  the  glances,  however,  and  supplied 
the  information  as  soon  as  they  reached  the  little 
porch,  and  he  could  deposit  his  burden.  Then,  with 
a  cordial  handclasp  for  Catharine,  who  appeared  in 
the  door,  he  proceeded  at  once  to  untie  the  package, 
or  bundle  of  packages,  securely  tied  together.  As  he 
produced  two  light,  jointed,  bamboo  easels,  two  camp 
stools — one  of  very  sturdy  make — a  pair  of  drawing- 
pads  and  some  minor  articles,  he  watched  the  bright- 
ness of  pleased  understanding  grow  in  Mary's  face. 
"How  good  of  you  to  remember!"  she  said,  with 
a  warm  blush.  "There  are  two  of  everything!  For 
you  and  me."  It  was  not  a  question.  "Yes,  I 
thought  we  could  have  some  good  times  experimenting 
around  here  when  I  get  back."  (Mary  had  spoken 
of  her  wish  to  learn  to  sketch.)  "I  am  going  to  take 
my  mother  to  Boston,  to-morrow,  to  start  her  for  North 
East  Harbor,  so  we  won't  be  able  to  work  together 
for  a  couple  of  days,  but  I  have  two  or  three  flat 
studies  here  for  you  to  try  your  hand  on,  meantime, 
if  you  like,  and  I  shall  be  anxious  to  see  what  progress 
you  have  made  when  I  get  back."  John  was  talking 
against  time — a  new  thing  for  him.  He  gave  his  clos- 
est attention  to  the  unwrapping  of  the  rest  of  his 
treasures,  which  included  a  very  complete  outfit  of 
moist  colors  and  brushes;  but  when  he  did  at  last 
look  up,  he  saw  that  the  transient  brightness  was 
gone  from  Mary's  face,  and  eyes  and  lips  were 
quietly  sad.  She  said  nothing. 


THE   GULF  OF  YEARS  63 

"I  have  my  own  paint-box,"  he  went  on  quickly; 
"I  hadn't  time  to  look  it  up  this  morning,  but  I  know 
it  will  need  some  replenishing.  I  will  bring  it  out  on 
Saturday,  and  if  Catharine  will  give  me  my  lunch,  I 
will  spend  the  day,  and  we  can  do  great  execution." 

"Saturday  will  be  my  birthday.  Did  you  know  it, 
and  mean  all  these  for  presents?  "  Mary  asked  timidly, 
the  color  coming  back  in  a  flood. 

"Yes,"  he  said  simply,  while  the  same  thought, 
coming  into  both  minds  at  once,  was  telegraphed  from 
eye  to  eye.  Each  paid  silent  tribute  to  the  one  loved 
presence  that  would  be  missing  from  this  birthday  for 
the  first  time  in  her  sixteen  years. 

"  Could  you  stay  and  have  your  supper  with  Mary 
this  evening,  Mr.  Brown?"  Catharine  asked  hesi- 
tatingly. "She  picked  the  first  strawberries  this 
morning  and  is  saving  them  for  you."  John's  regret- 
ful eyes  answered  Mary's  questioning  ones. 

"I  wish  I  could,"  he  said,  "but  my  visit  to-day 
must  be  short.  Later  on  I  am  going  to  tire  you  out 
with  my  staying.  Why  mayn't  I  have  the  strawber- 
ries now?"  he  asked,  still  watching  Mary's  wistful  face. 

"Would  you  eat  them  now?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"I  don't  know  any  time  of  day  that  I  couldn't  eat 
strawberries,"  he  answered  with  convincing  enthu- 
siasm, and  Mary  disappeared  like  an  arrow  from  the 
bow.  Catharine,  with  John's  help,  collected  the 
scattered  papers  and  strings,  answering  meanwhile 
his  anxious  questions  as  to  his  new  ward's  state  of 
mind.  They  were  not  altogether  reassuring  answers; 
for  Mary's  realization  of  her  loneliness  was  coming  in 
full  force,  after  the  excitement  and  stress  of  the  last 


64  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

few  days.  They  were  soon  interrupted  by  the  appear- 
ance of  the  child  herself — the  veriest  child  she  looked 
as  she  came  toward  them  with  her  basket  of  berries 
in  one  hand  and  a  little  tray,  properly  equipped,  in 
the  other. 

"Oh,  Catharine,  leave  me  a  piece  of  paper  for  my 
stems,"  she  said,  as  Catharine  was  smilingly  passing 
her  with  her  armload  of  spoil.  John  rescued  a  large 
piece,  and  she  seated  herself  on  the  steps  of  that  end 
of  the  porch  which  was  screened  by  foliage  and  vines 
from  the  view  of  the  few  passers-by.  He  dropped 
down  beside  her,  spreading  the  paper  out  between  them. 

"You  needn't  help  me;  you'd  just  get  your  fingers 
all  stained,  and  it  won't  take  me  a  minute,"  she 
remarked  briskly.  Service  for  those  she  loved  was 
second  nature  to  her,  and  thus  far  the  service  had 
been  all  on  John's  side. 

He  acquiesced  for  reasons  of  his  own,  and  watched 
her  operations  with  a  sensation  as  delicious  as  it  was 
new.  In  all  his  life  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  say 
to  any  woman  in  gallantry,  that  something  had  been 
the  sweeter  for  her  touch.  It  as  little  occurred  to 
him  to  say  it  now.  It  pleased  him  that  she  was  a 
little  awkward  in  the  handling  of  them,  and  had  per- 
haps been  overeager  in  the  plucking  of  some.  When  a 
calyx  refused  to  come  neatly  out  of  its  little  hole,  or 
left  a  refractory  sepal  clinging  to  the  berry,  his  eyes 
rested  like  a  caress  on  the  dainty  thumb  and  ringers 
that  went  to  work  at  it.  Neither  of  them  spoke  much. 
It  was  not  till  the  saucer  showed  a  more  than  generous 
heap  that  he  suddenly  called  a  halt,  and  asked  her  if 
she  wanted  to  make  him  sick. 


THE   GULF  OF  YEARS  65 

"Were  you  ever  sick?"  she  asked,  looking  incredu- 
lously at  his  stalwart  figure. 

"Well,  I  have  a  memory  of  measles,  or  chicken- 
pox,  or  some  itchy  complaint,  but  it  is  a  good  while 
back,"  he  confessed  smiling. 

"Oh,  I  must  get  the  sugar  and  cream!"  she 
exclaimed,  starting  up  to  go  for  them,  but  John  stopped 
her  with  a  gesture.  "No,  no;  I  don't  want  any,"  he 
said. 

"Don't  you  like  them?"  She  seemed  surprised. 

"  Catharine  gets  lovely  rich  cream  from  the  H 's 

(mentioning  the  owners  of  the  neighboring  estate, 
whose  herd  of  cows  was  visible,  grazing  in  the  opposite 
meadow). 

"Yes,  I  like  them  very  much,  sometimes,  but — I 
would  rather  have  these  just  as  they  are."  He  had 
not  meant  to  make  any  special  emphasis,  but  some- 
thing in  his  voice  and  manner  struck  her. 

"Because  I  stemmed  them  for  you?"  she  asked 
shyly. 

If  the  babe  in  the  cradle  had  put  such  a  question  to 
him,  John  could  hardly  have  been  more  startled  and 
confused.  He  could  not  summon  a  word  in  reply; 
but  fortunately  none  was  needed.  Some  memory, 
evidently  born  of  her  own  words,  had  brought  the 
sudden  tears  to  her  eyes  and  made  her  turn  her  face 
away.  John  understood.  Nurtured  from  babyhood 
in  the  atmosphere  of  Dick's  loverlike  tenderness,  it  had 
not  needed  a  precocious  clairvoyance  to  make  her 
recognize  a  sentiment  that  was  no  new  one  to  her. 
Poor  child!  He  took  the  hand  nearest  htm,  and 
gazed  down  on  its  stained  fingers  with  an  overwhelm- 


66  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

ing  desire  to  press  them  to  his  lips,  to  pour  out  some- 
thing of  the  flood  of  feeling  pent  up  within  him.  The 
temptation  was  only  momentary;  the  next  instant 
his  eyes  met  hers  smilingly. 

"I  ought  to  go  in  and  wash  them,"  she  said,  looking 
down,  too,  on  her  imprisoned  fingers;  "but  I  want  to 
see  you  eat  your  strawberries  first." 

He  took  the  little  tray  and  raised  the  spoon. 
"But  I  feel  so  greedy  eating  all  by  myself.  One 
has  to  have  company  to  enjoy  a  treat,"  he  said 
quizzically. 

Mary  immediately  turned  over  a  leaf  of  her  book, 
and  showed  him  a  new  face — a  face  bright  with  mis- 
chief, and  a  dash  of  coquetry — as  she  moved  nearer 
to  him,  picked  up  a  very  large  berry  from  his  plate, 
and  took  a  bite. 

"Now  do  you  feel  better?"  she  asked.  "I  got  the 
very  biggest  one." 

"Not  all  of  it!"  repossessing  himself  of  the  half 
that  was  left. 

Catharine  stopped  her  work  inside,  and  listened  in 
pleased  surprise.  It  was  years  since  she  had  heard 
that  little  rippling,  infectious  laugh  that  came  to  her 
through  the  open  window.  It  fell  like  music  on  her 
ears,  and  not  on  hers  alone.  John  had  forgotten 
Mary's  troubles,  and  his;  and  was  a  light-hearted 
boy  for  the  moment.  She  took  another  berry  and 
made  herself  secure  against  rebates.  For  the  length 
of  time  it  took  them  to  empty  that  plate  they 
were  both  children.  John  was  drinking  stronger  wine 
than  the  juice  of  the  berries;  but  all  at  once  the  little 
laugh  was  hushed,  and  Mary  turned  another  leaf  and 


THE   GULF  OF  YEARS  67 

grew  shy.  She  interlaced  her  fingers,  palms  upward, 
on  her  knees,  as  children  do  when  they  have  made 
"the  church  and  steeple,"  and  suddenly  reverse  it 
and  show  "the  parson  and  all  the  people";  and  with 
her  eyes  on  this  berry-stained  congregation  she  asked 
timidly:  "Mr.  Brown,  would  you  like  me  to  call  you 
Uncle  John?" 

"No!"  John  said  bluntly. 

She  raised  startled,  half  incredulous  eyes  to  his  face; 
the  curves  of  her  lips  were  both  proud  and  sensitive. 
How  odd  and  still  he  looked!  All  the  fun  and  youth 
had  gone  out  of  his  face.  He  was  not  joking;  she 
saw  that.  "You  mustn't  take  me  too  seriously,"  he 
said  hastily,  seeing  his  blunder.  "I  am  just  a  cranky 
old  bachelor,  but  I  should  be  glad  to  have  you  call 
me  whatever  you  like." 

Her  eyes  fell,  and  she  grew  deeply  thoughtful. 

She  was  only  partly  reassured.  He  was  not 
offended,  but  the  great  change  in  his  face  had  not 
been  caused  by  "crankiness."  She  was  too  intelli- 
gent not  to  see  that  she  had  touched  some  sensitive 
spot;  perhaps  stirred  some  painful  memory.  She 
had  meant  to  please  him  and  she  had  only  hurt! 
Her  lips  quivered: 

"I  only  thought  'Mr.  Brown'  seemed  so  formal, 
when  I — when  we — I  should  like  to  pretend  I  was 
some  relation  to  you." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then  he  said  in  a 
low,  constrained  voice,  as  timid  as  hers  had  been: 
"Mary,  would  you  be  willing" — he  leaned  far  for- 
ward and  picked  up  a  twig  that  had  fallen  on  the 
lowest  step — "would  you — just — call  me  John?" 


68  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  readily,  almost  eagerly;  "would 
you  like  that?" 

"I  should  like  it — very  much."  He  straightened 
himself  and  glanced  keenly  at  her  to  see  whether 
the  suggestion  had  discomposed  her;  whether  she 
seemed  to  find  it  strange.  No,  her  eyes  met  his, 
bright  with  feeling,  and  frankly  loving. 

The  gulf  of  years  that  her  proposal  had  opened 
between  them  was  lessened,  but  not  bridged.  John 
did  not  deceive  himself.  He  suspected  that  she 
would  have  called  Mr.  Lincoln,  "Abraham,"  with 
equal  readiness. 

After  he  had  helped  her  to  carry  in  the  remains 
of  the  strawberry  festival  she  got  her  new  paint-box 
and  the  studies,  and  went  over  them  with  a  child's 
eager  anticipation,  reading  the  name  on  each  paint, 
and  inquiring  the  shades  of  those  that  were  new  to 
her,  drawing  the  soft  brushes  lovingly  across  her 
fingers,  and  examining  the  flower  studies. 

"I  think  I  will  wait  for  you  to  commence —  John" 
— just  a  trifle  of  shy  hesitation  before  the  new  title — 
"I  could  never  do  these  by  myself." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  could!  Try  this  simple  part  first," 
John  said  easily,  only  showing  by  a  sudden  soft 
brightness  in  his  eyes  the  pleasure  his  name  gave 
him  so  spoken.  He  had  always  thought  it  very 
prosaic  before. 

Why  he  should  have  stood  long  before  his  dressing- 
glass  that  night  studying  his  dark,  rugged  face  with 
a  quite  new  interest,  and  have  turned  away  with  a 
muttered  exclamation  very  like  "blue  mud";  and 
why  he  should  have  scanned,  with  such  grave  wistful- 


THE   GULF  OF  YEARS  69 

ness,  the  faces  of  the  Yale  students  who  bustled, 
hatless  and  eager,  about  the  New  Haven  platform 
next  day,  greeting  the  many  complacent  matrons 
and  blushing  maidens  that  the  Boston  train  set 
down  there,  the  experienced  reader  may  be  able 
to  guess. 


CHAPTER  VII 
IN  WHICH  CATHARINE  HEARS  OF  KING  ARTHUR 

THAT  evening  after  John  left  them,  Catharine 
and  Mary  ate  their  simple  supper  in  almost 
unbroken  silence.  The  good  woman's  mind 
was  full  of  memories  of  the  honest  face  that,  for 
four  years,  had  beamed  upon  her  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  little  table.  Mary's  loss  had  brought  her 
own  freshly  to  her  mind,  and  had  wakened  besides 
a  throng  of  older  memories.  When  they  betook 
themselves  to  the  little  parlor,  so  hung  about  and 
decorated  with  samples  of  Mary's  childish  handi- 
work, and  souvenirs  of  the  life  abroad,  she  took 
the  girl's  bright  head  on  her  lap,  and  made  no  effort 
to  check  the  tears  that  rolled  down  her  cheeks  and 
dropped  on  the  neatly  braided  hair,  flecked  with 
gold  in  the  lamplight. 

"I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  said 
penitently,  after  a  long  silence,  making  a  poor  busi- 
ness of  drying  her  eyes.  "I  dare  say  Mr.  Brown 
feels  most  as  bad  as  we  do,  but  he's  always  cheerful 
and  bright,  and  he  makes  you  cheerful  right  away," 
she  said  the  last  words  with  a  twinge  of  involuntary 
jealousy. 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  think  he's  exactly  trying  to  be 
cheerful.  There  seems  a  kind  of  happiness  hi  him 

(70) 


CATHARINE  HEARS  OF  KING  ARTHUR  71 

that  sorrow  couldn't  change."  Mary  seemed  consider- 
ing the  meaning  of  her  own  words.  "  Father  said 
he  was  the  best  man  he  ever  knew;  but  that  isn't 
the  reason  I  just  love  him.  I  don't  like  good  people — 
oh,  you  know  what  I  mean!"  as  Catharine  remon- 
strated. "I  don't  know  what  there  is  about  him, 
but  I  love  him  to  touch  me;  I  love  to  get  close  to 
him.  He  makes  me  happy  all  over  even  in  the  midst 
of  being  so  lonely  and  sad.  Father  understands." 

There  was  a  long  silence  while  Mary's  wet  eyes 
roamed  from  object  to  object  in  the  cosy  room. 
"So  many  things  in  this  room  make  me  want  to  cry, 
and  yet  I  just  love  to  look  at  them.  I  remember 
when  father  let  me  buy  that  chalet  for  you  for 'a 
surprise,  and  the  Bernese  doll.  I  was  sure  you  would 
like  them  because  I  did." 

"And  so  I  did,  dearie,  I  often  go  over  the  old  days 
when  I'm  dustin'  in  here.  Mr.  Brown  was  so  in- 
terested lookin'  around  here,  when  you  were  up- 
stairs." 

"He  says  I  may  call  him  John,"  Mary  said, 
with  an  approach  to  shyness  at  the  recollection. 

"Did  you  ask  him  that,  Mary?"  Catharine  in- 
quired, scandalized. 

"No,  not  exactly.  I  asked  him  if  he  would  like 
me  to  call  him  'Uncle  John,'  and  he  said  he  would 
rather  I  just  called  him  John."  Both  lapsed  into 
"brown  studies"  with  capital  Bs.  Mary  did  not  feel 
like  repeating  all  the  words  of  that  dialogue,  or 
speaking  of  John's  emotion,  or  her  own  conjectures 
as  to  the  cause  of  it.  She  saw  no  special  significance 
in  it,  but  it  seemed  a  sort  of  involuntary  confidence 


72  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

not  to  be  divulged  to  anyone.  It  was  the  manner 
of  that  asking  and  offering  that  Catharine  would 
most  have  liked  to  know;  but  she  only  stroked 
Mary's  hair  gently,  trying  to  read  her  averted  face 
the  while,  and  not  succeeding.  She  marveled  at 
the  wonderful  intimacy  so  quickly  sprung  up  between 
these  two;  but  John's  manner  to  his  new  ward  had 
no  trace  of  that  indescribable  something  that  she 
had  often  seen  and  hated  in  the  behavior  of  middle- 
aged  or  elderly  men  toward  young  girls  thrown  into 
intimate  relations  with  them.  She  had  watched 
them  together  with  an  instinctive  appreciation  of 
his  great  delicacy  and  reserve.  She  saw  that  he  was 
ready  to  respond  to  the  least  appeal  for  sympathy 
and  love;  and  had  not  Mary  just  frankly  acknowl- 
edged her  wish  for  his  caresses?  But  Catharine  saw, 
too,  that  he  refrained  from  touching  her  except 
when  he  felt  her  need.  A  feeling  of  apprehension, 
almost  of  pity,  was  fast  taking  the  place  of  even 
the  tiny  spark  of  jealousy  in  her  simple  heart.  By 
some  occult  connection  of  ideas  her  mind  was  drawn 
to  an  event  of  a  few  weeks  before. 

"Mary,"  she  said  with  a  brisk  change  of  voice, 
"do  you  remember  little  Jack  Wurts  that  you  used 
to  play  with?" 

"I  think  I  do,  but  maybe  I  only  remember  remem- 
bering. Father  was  talking  to  me  one  day  about 
having  grown  so  patient  and  gentle — as  if  anybody 
could  help  being  gentle  with  him — and  he  reminded 
me  of  the  time  I  bit  Jack,  and  some  other  things 
I  did  when  I  was  little.  But  I'm  not  the  least  bit 
patient;  I  get  awfully  cross  at  people  yet,  and  I've 


CATHARINE  HEARS  OF  KING  ARTHUR  73 

seen  some  people  I'd  like  to  bite  if  I  could  use  some- 
body else's  teeth  to  do  it  with.  Did  I  ever  slap  or 
bite  you,  Catharine?" 

"No,  my  precious,  ye  were  the  best  dispositioned 
child  I  ever  saw,  and  happy  from  morning  till  night. 
Ye  did  things  some  people  might  call  naughty,  but 
never  an  ugly,  mean  one,  and  you  always  had  the 
sweetest,  little,  cunning,  lovin'  ways  with  ye." 

Mary  drew  the  labor-rough  hand  from  her  hair 
and  kissed  it  in  spite  of  Catharine's  resistance.  She 
was  very  strong  even  with  the  indoor  life  which  had 
so  worried  her  father. 

"Catharine,"  she  said  suddenly,  with  a  far-off 
look  in  her  eyes,  and  a  soft  color  on  her  cheeks, 
"I  can  hardly  wait  till  I  get  old  enough  to  get  mar- 
ried and  have  a  whole  lot  of  little  children!" 

"Lord  love  ye,"  was  Catharine's  sole,  astonished 
rejoinder.  "And  what  about  ye'r  husband?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  want  my  husband  to  be 
like.  Once  I  told  father  I  wanted  to  marry  a  man 
like  the  King  Arthur  at  Innsbruck,  and  he  laughed 
and  said  he  would  look  very  different  in  ordinary 
clothes,  and  armor  was  unhandy  for  every  day." 
Then,  with  a  sudden  recollection  of  Catharine's  loss 
of  husband  and  child,  and  of  her  own  great  loss, 
she  rose  and  threw  her  arms  around  the  motherly 
neck  with  a  sympathy  entirely  womanly.  Cath- 
arine's ready  tears  came  again,  but  she  was  think- 
ing of  the  future  as  well  as  of  the  past  while  she 
heartily  returned  the  embrace. 

"The  good  Lord  grant  ye  a  King  Arthur  and  all 
the  children  ye  want,  my  dearie,"  she  said  aloud, 


74  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

and  added  to  herself,  "and  there'll  be  a  many  ready 
to  fill  King  Arthur's  place,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"And  you  are  to  come  and  live  with  me,  and  I 
will  name  one  of  them  after  you."  Mary  was  laugh- 
ing now  at  her  own  childish  conceit,  but  something 
had  been  stirred  within  her  that  kept  her  dreaming 
until  Catharine  reminded  her  that  it  was  time  for 
sleeping  dreams. 

Later,  when  Catharine  came  to  "tuck  her  in" 
and  give  her  the  usual  good-night  kiss,  Mary  said 
rather  shamefacedly:  "Catharine,  never  tell  any- 
body what  I  was  talking  about." 

"And  who  would  I  be  telling?"  Catharine  asked 
sadly,  in  spite  of  wonder  and  amusement.  Later, 
as  she  returned  to  her  own  widowed  couch,  she  said 
to  herself:  "It's  not  me  that  will  be  tellin'  Mr. 
Brown  about  yer  King  Arthurs;  he'll  find  'em  out 
soon  enough,  I'm  afraid." 

Next  morning,  while  they  were  clearing  away 
the  breakfast  dishes,  she  suddenly  recalled  an  inter- 
rupted topic  of  last  night. 

"Mary,  ye  put  me  out  so  with  yer  gettin'-married 
talk  that  I  never  finished  telling  ye  that  I  saw  Mrs. 
Wurts  on  the  street  one  day  not  long  ago,  and  she 
knew  me  at  once,  and  asked  all  manner  o'  questions 
about  yer  father  and  you.  Of  course  I  didn't  know 
then  that  he  was  thinkin'  of  comin'  home,  nor  all 
that  was  ahead  of  us."  She  drew  the  back  of  her 
hand  across  her  eyes,  and  continued,  "but  I  told 
her  a  good  deal.  She  said  Jack  was  a  scholar  at  one 
o'  those  big  colleges  (I  forget  the  name  of  it  now; 
I  hardly  noticed  it,  anyhow,  I  was  that  upset  talkin' 


CATHARINE  HEARS  OF  KING  ARTHUR  75 

of  old  times).  She  was  sorry  to  hear  about  my  trou- 
bles, too.  She's  a  right  nice  lady,  and  she  thought  a 
lot  of  yer  father.  I  could  see  she  felt  terrible  bad 
to  hear  what  had  come  to  him.  He  was  as  straight 
and  strong  as  a  pine  tree  when  she  knew  him." 

"Father  always  said  he  believed  people's  bodies 
would  match  their  souls  in  Heaven,  and  I  have  been 
thinking  a  great  many  times  that  he  must  be  the  most 
beautiful,  straight,  strong  man  there — except  Jesus." 

She  had  been  interested  to  hear  of  Mrs.  Wurts;  but 
the  other  interest,  suggested  by  that  train  of  thought, 
swallowed  up  all  minor  ones. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  A  TAILOR'S  GOOSE 

MISS  NEWLIN  spent  an  afternoon  with  Mary 
before  betaking  herself  to  the  quiet  moun- 
tain resort  where  she  planned  a  modified 
rest  cure.  She  was  a  woman  whose  strong  frame, 
broad  shoulders,  and  resolute,  energetic  carriage 
suggested  robust  health,  but  she  had  in  reality  only 
made  an  indomitable  will  do  the  work  of  a  strong 
constitution,  and  nature  was  taking  her  revenge 
now  in  periods  of  extreme  fatigue  which  her  doctor 
warned  her  was  an  indication  of  an  overtaxed  heart. 
It  was  on  one  of  her  quests  for  renewed  strength 
that  she  had  come  upon  Dick  Farnham  in  his  retired 
corner,  and  led  by  womanly  sympathy  as  much  as 
by  old  association,  had  become  rapidly  intimate  with 
him,  and  warmly  interested  in  Mary.  Remembering 
Margaret  Brown's  school-days,  Dick  had  often 
thought  of  Miss  Newlin  as  a  possible  solution  of  the 
problem  of  Mary's  future;  but  a  voyage  home  was 
strictly  forbidden  him,  and  he  saw  no  prospect  of 
carrying  out  any  such  plan.  When  Providence  seemed 
to  have  so  opportunely  brought  them  together,  he 
eagerly  grasped  at  the  friendship,  feeling  more  and 
more  that  the  time  could  not  be  far  off  when  the  child 
would  be  in  sore  need  of  it. 

(76) 


SIGNIFICANCE  OF  A  TAILOR'S  GOOSE  77 

Miss  Newlin  was  a  woman  of  unusual  power  both 
of  mind  and  soul,  and  withal  capable  of  great  tender- 
ness toward  those  who  came  close  enough  to  her  to 
awaken  it.  The  prevailing  sentiment  that  she  in- 
spired, in  school  and  out,  was  a  respectful  awe,  more 
or  less  mixed  with  admiration.  In  her  presence  one 
felt  the  contact  with  a  great  personality,  and  small- 
ness  always  shrank  back  under  the  gaze  of  her  won- 
derfully penetrating  and  expressive  little  brown 
eyes.  Her  somewhat  low  forehead,  from  which  the 
hair  was  uncompromisingly  drawn  back  and  twisted 
into  a  round  knob,  would. not  have  suggested  ideality, 
nor  would  the  square  jaw  and  high  cheek-bones; 
but  one  had  only  to  hear  her  read  great  poetry,  or 
noble  oratory;  had  only  to  see  her  plain,  strong 
face  transfigured  with  the  glow  of  an  inward  fire, 
to  realize  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  one  of  the 
world's  mute  poets  and  seers;  of  a  great  spirit  that 
could  only  find  its  wings  through  communion  with 
other  great  spirits.  Mary  was  too  really  simple  to 
be  intimidated  by  the  reputation  of  learning  in  others, 
and  she  had  felt  herself  strongly  drawn  to  Miss  Newlin, 
whose  manner  toward  her  father  was  replete  with 
sympathy  and  charm;  but  it  was  that  first  time  the 
lady  had  read  aloud  to  them,  which  had  completed 
the  conquest.  The  poem  she  had  chosen  was  Brown- 
ing's "Saul,"  and  Mary  had  sat  enthralled,  looking 
up  at  her  from  the  stool  at  her  father's  side,  and  drink- 
ing in  each  phrase  of  the  poet,  and  tone  of  the 
reader,  with  a  soul  so  kindled  by  the  majesty  and 
beauty  of  what  she  only  partly  comprehended,  that 
she  never  knew  the  wonderful  brown  eyes  were  no 


78  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

longer  looking  at  the  book,  but  deep,  deep,  down 
into  hers. 

"OSaul.it  shall  be 

A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee;  a  Man  like  to  me, 
Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  forever !  a  Hand  like  this  hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee!    See  the  Christ 
stand!" 

The  rich,  deep  voice  suddenly  ceased.  Mary 
became  conscious  that  it  was  no  longer  David  who 
was  speaking;  that  it  was  Miss  Newlin's  voice  talk- 
ing to  her,  and  Miss  Newlin's  strong  hand  holding 
hers. 

"Child,  I  must  have  you  one  of  these  days.  Oh, 
I  will  take  your  father  too!" 

The  meetings  at  Germantown  and  Fernwood, 
after  nearly  two  years'  separation,  had  been  more 
conventional,  however  full  of  sympathetic  gentle- 
ness on  the  one  hand  and  grateful  response  on  the 
other.  Miss  Newlin  was  tired  out,  and  the  very  spirit 
within  her  was  dimmed;  and  Mary  had  been  too 
full  of  her  trouble  and  too  much  in  awe  of  that  future 
which  Miss  Newlin  represented,  to  have  much  to 
say.  John's  coming  had  been  welcome  to  them  both. 

That  wondrous  month  of  June  found  John,  day 
after  day,  at  Fernwood,  and  when  he  was  not  there 
in  the  flesh  (the  term  is  singularly  inappropriate  to 
him)  he  was  there  in  the  spirit. 

John  Patterson  and  his  wife  Hannah,  who  had 
married  in  Mrs.  Brown's  service  ten  years  before,  and 
felt  themselves  as  much  a  part  of  the  family  as  though 
they  had  been  born  into  it,  had  many  chats  together 


SIGNIFICANCE  OF  A  TAILOR'S  GOOSE  79 

over  "Mr.  John's  child";  and  both  had  a  consuming 
curiosity  to  see  her.  John  filled  the  post  of  butler, 
and  would  also  have  been  valet  con  amore  to  John 
Brown,  if  that  gentleman's  simple  habits  had  admitted 
of  such  a  functionary.  Brushing  his  clothes  or 
blacking  his  boots  was  all  John  Patterson  ever  seemed 
able  to  find  to  do  for  his  beloved  employer;  while 
to  Hannah,  who  combined  the  light  duties  of  cham- 
bermaid with  those  of  attendance  on  Mrs.  Brown, 
was  accorded  the  more  intimate  joy  of  "making  up 
his  room,"  not  to  mention  the  delights  of  darning 
his  stockings  and  sewing  on  his  buttons.  Both  had 
a  sincere  respect  and  admiration  for  Mrs.  Brown, 
who  was  their  ideal  of  what  a  real  lady  and  a  good 
mistress  ought  to  be;  but  for  "Mr.  John"  their  regard 
was  of  a  kind  that  bordered  upon  idolatry.  It  was 
the  keenest  regret  to  them  both  that  he  had  never 
married,  but  as  they  saw  no  likelihood  of  that,  they 
wished  that,  at  least,  he  would  bring  this  child  home. 
Only  they  did  have  some  misgivings  as  to  their 
mistress'  acceptance  of  such  an  arrangement. 

"John,"  said  "Mr.  John"  one  warm  morning 
late  in  the  month,  "it  seems  to  me  that  these  thin 
trousers  have  got  a  little  baggy  in  the  knees.  What 
do  you  think?" 

"So  they  have,  sir,"  John  Patterson  rejoined  with 
alacrity,  "and  I  could  run  around  and  let  Tom  Ford 
press  the  whole  suit  for  you  this  morning,  if  you'd 
just  change  before  you  go  out.  They'd  look  a  lot 
better."  John  acquiesced  with  a  gratified  smile. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  said  his  humble  adorer  to  Han- 
nah, "I  never  knew  him  to  notice  that  before!  I'm 


80  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

goin'  to  get  a  tailor's  goose  and  board  and  keep  a 
crease  in  all  his  trousers.  I'd  ought  to  thought  o' 
that  long  ago.  It  seems  to  me  he  looks  younger 
lately,  and  carries  himself  straighter." 

Even  Mary  began  to  notice  a  difference  in  him, 
though  she  was  not  versed  enough  in  matters  of  male 
attire  to  attribute  the  change  to  unrumpled  coats 
and  freshly  creased  trousers.  Personal  appearance 
in  "King  Arthur"  was  really  important,  but  in 
"John" — she  had  got  well  used  to  the  title  in  those 
intimate  weeks — it  didn't  make  a  bit  of  difference. 

"John,  why  did  you  never  want  to  get  married?" 
she  asked  one  morning,  looking  up  suddenly  from  her 
work,  and  fixing  a  grave,  inquiring  gaze  full  upon 
him. 

He  noted  the  use  of  the  past-definite  with  a  twinge, 
but  it  was  with  a  quizzical  smile  that  he  turned  to 
her.  "How  do  you  know  that  I  never  did?" 

She  answered  the  smile  with  one  so  frankly  loving 
as  to  preclude  all  idea  of  coquetry  in  dealing  with 
this  very  personal  topic.  If  her  color  rose,  it  was  with 
affectionate  interest. 

"I  think  if  you  really  wanted  anything  very  much" 
(present  tense  now)  "you'd  get  it — unless" — with 
a  subdued  afterthought — "it  might  harm  somebody 
else." 

If  she  dropped  her  eyes  it  was  only  for  the  prosaic 
reason  that  her  brush  had  fallen  from  her  hand  in 
the  moment  of  absorption.  John  quickly  restored 
it  to  her  with  a  merry  little  laugh.  She  thanked 
him  with  hardly  a  glance;  she  was  intent  on  seeing 
whether  the  falling  brush  had  stained  her  skirt; 


SIGNIFICANCE  OF  A  TAILOR'S  GOOSE  81 

but  he  wanted  another  look  into  those  wells  of  truth. 
He  would  make  her  turn  to  him  again. 

"Suppose,"  he  said  solemnly,  "I  had  wanted  to 
marry  someone  very  much,  and  she  would  not  have 
me?"  His  purpose  was  instantly  effected;  the 
paint-brush  was  again  in  imminent  danger,  while 
eyes  of  startled  incredulity  tried  to  discover  some 
twinkle  in  his,  and  saw  only  an  inscrutable  gravity. 
Her  color  rose  high,  and  her  lips  half  opened.  Sud- 
denly the  dimples  appeared  and  the  eyelids  fell; 
"I  almost  believed  you,"  she  said  with  the  half- 
embarrassed  little  laugh  of  one  who  has  been  the  easy 
victim  of  a  practical  joke.  No  finished  coquette 
could  have  expressed  so  subtle  a  flattery.  Nature 
is  always  the  mistress  of  art.  The  lowered  lashes 
of  the  coquette  would  have  tried  to  imply  some- 
thing else,  however,  which  this  child  of  nature  never 
thought  of. 

John  called  himself  a  fool  for  the  unreasoning 
gladness  that  shot  through  him;  it  was  dampened 
in  a  moment. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  too  old  ever  to  think  of  such 
a  thing  now?"  he  asked  with  teasing  gravity. 

"No-o,  I  suppose  not,"  with  sudden  seriousness, 
"but  I  do  hope  you  won't!" 

The  very  idea  was  so  disturbing  that  she  pushed 
back  and  overturned  her  stool,  while  she  fell  upon 
her  knees  on  the  grass  at  John's  side  and  leaned  her 
head  against  his  arm.  The  arm  came  around  her  at 
once,  but  John's  voice  was  strange.  "You  needn't 
be  afraid,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  shall  never  belong  to 
anybody  but  you." 


82  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

Her  quick  ear  detected  the  new  note  in  his  tone, 
and  it  marred  the  relief  she  felt  at  his  assurance. 
"  Oh,  John,  I  know  I  ought  to  want  you  to  get  married 
if  you  would  really  be  happy  ever  after." 

"But  I  wouldn't.  I  shall  have  a  much  better  time 
looking  after  you,"  he  said,  smiling  down  into  her 
upturned,  wistful  face. 


CHAPTER  IX 
A  "SPOILED  CHILD" 

"  T  SUPPOSE  my  sketch  must   wait    to-day,    as 

v     John  isn't  coming; — unless  I   go    over    there 

myself,"  Mary  said  disconsolately,  one  warm 

day  in  early  July,  as  she  sat  in  the  shade  by  Catharine 

on  the  little  back  porch,  shelling  peas. 

"Why  couldn't  ye  sketch  the  buttonwood  tree? 
Ye're  so  fond  of  looking  at  it,"  Catharine  answered 
soothingly. 

"It's  too  hard;  I  could  never  do  it;  but  I  was  so 
interested  in  those  lovely  posts  and  the  piece  of  stone 
wall.  Why  couldn't  we  both  go  over  there  after  dinner, 
Catharine?  There  are  ever  so  comfortable  places  to 
sit,  and  you  could  sew,  and  I  could  work  on  my  sketch 
and  surprise  John.  He  works  so  much  faster  than  I 
do.  Besides,  you've  never  been  over  there  once,  and 
you  ought  to  see  how  pretty  it  is." 

The  object  of  discussion  was  the  partly  ruined 
barn-yard  of  a  deserted  farm  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away.  It  was  a  most  picturesque  spot  and  also  a 
singularly  lonely  one,  which  they  had  discovered  on 
a  ramble  a  few  days  before,  and  had  immediately 
seized  upon  as  a  perfect  subject  for  sketching.  The 
beautiful  summer  weather  was  well  fitted  for  outdoor 
work  of  a  quiet  kind,  and  she  grudged  this  exquisite 

(83) 


84  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

day.  Truth  to  tell,  John  had  so  spoiled  her  that  she 
felt  almost  aggrieved  if  a  day  passed  without  seeing 
him.  "It's  a  wonder  he  don't  try  his  hand  on  ye," 
Catharine  thought,  as  her  eyes  rested  on  the  picture 
before  her;  "but  I  doubt  paint  could  ever  make  the 
color  of  her  eyes  or  the  little  shiny  places  on  her  hair." 
It  was  her  opinion  that  Mr.  Brown  would  give  a 
good  sum  for  the  picture  if  it  could  be  done. 

"Well,  I  don't  mind,"  was  her  indulgent  response 
to  Mary's  proposal.  She  much  preferred  her  com- 
fortable rocker  on  the  porch  to  an  "ever  so"  comfor- 
table stump  or  bench  on  the  ground;  and  it  was  a 
warm  day,  but  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  throw 
cold  water  on  any  pleasure  of  this  darling  of  her 
heart,  even  though  it  meant  a  much  greater  incon- 
venience to  herself.  In  her  secret  heart  she  was  still 
a  little  jealous  of  Mr.  Brown,  both  for  herself  and  Mr. 
Farnham.  It  astonished  her  that  Mary  could  seem 
really  happy  with  anyone  so  soon  after  her  great 
loss.  "No  child  ever  loved  her  father  better  than 
she  did,"  she  ruminated;  and  she  had  felt  that  it 
would  take  her  utmost  efforts  to  rouse  her  charge 
from  despair.  She  almost  resented  the  fact  that  this 
man,  who  had  been  a  comparative  stranger  only  a 
little  while  ago,  could  so  occupy  the  child's  thoughts 
that  there  was  hardly  any  time  left  to  indulge  in 
grief.  She  told  herself  that  it  was  because  Mary 
connected  him  with  her  father  and  remembered  her 
father's  great  fondness  for  him;  and  she  often  heard 
them  talking  of  Dick  with  tears  in  their  eyes;  but 
it  was  wonderful  "all  the  same."  With  the  tact  and 
fine  feeling  of  a  native  gentlewoman,  she  always  spoke 


A   "SPOILED   CHILD"  85 

to  Mary  of  John's  affection  as  not  only  a  natural, 
but  an  inevitable  thing,  and  of  his  constant  visits 
as  the  faithful  and  glad  fulfilling  of  a  trust;  but  in 
her  own  mind  she  knew  that  she  had  never  seen  a 
trust  accepted  and  carried  out  in  just  this  spirit, 
and  to  this  extent,  and  she  was  convinced  that  the 
short  intervals  between  John's  visits  were  all  too 
long  to  him. 

Mary  was  in  haste  to  be  off  as  soon  as  her  midday 
dinner  was  swallowed,  but  Catharine  demurred.  It 
was  too  hot,  and  she  must  take  time  to  "clear  up  and 
fix  herself  up  a  little"  before  going  out  on  the  road. 
Finally  Mary  urged  her  to  let  her  go  on  ahead  with 
her  apparatus  and  she  (Catharine)  could  follow  at 
her  leisure. 

"I  will  wipe  the  dishes  and  put  them  away  for 
you,"  she  said,  "and  then  you  can  take  your  time 
about  changing  your  dress.  You  know  the  lane, 
and  it's  only  a  step  after  you  turn  in,  and  nobody 
ever  comes  there.  It's  shady  nearly  all  the  way," 
she  ended,  "and  I  don't  call  it  hot  to-day!" 

Catharine  made  many  objections,  but  her  head- 
strong "child"  overruled  them  all,  and  finally  whee- 
dled her  into  a  reluctant  consent.  Mary  allowed  no 
retracting  when  the  dishes  were  put  away;  and 
Catharine  saw  her  start  off,  with  easel  and  painting 
outfit,  at  a  gait  suggestive  of  October  frosts. 

"I  must  hurry  up  and  get  ready,"  she  said  to  her- 
self; "I  oughtn't  to  have  let  her  go  around  by  herself, 
but  I  couldn't  bear  to  deny  her.  She's  seemed  low- 
spirited  all  the  morning."  Again  the  little  jealous 
pang  shot  through  her  and  made  her  scold  herself 


86  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

vigorously  as  she  hurried  about  and  got  well  heated 
up  before  starting. 

Mary,  meantime,  found  it  comfortable  to  slacken 
her  energetic  pace.  As  she  walked  along  under  the 
overhanging  branches,  she  made  a  picture  that  any- 
one might  have  been  excused  for  turning  to  look  at, 
and  in  which  no  one  but  Mrs.  Grundy  could  have 
discovered  a  flaw.  That  exacting  lady  would  un- 
questionably have  criticized  the  "hang"  of  her  blue 
gingham  skirt  and  the  fit  of  the  simple  waist;  but 
to  the  artist,  the  bit  of  white  throat  exposed  would 
have  condoned  the  sagging  collar,  and  he  would  have 
rejoiced  in  the  overlong  sleeves  which  made  the 
turning  back  of  the  frills  almost  a  necessity.  Whether 
the  nondescript  young  man  who  passed  her  near  the 
entrance  to  the  farm  lane  was  an  artist  or  not,  this 
true  history  cannot  undertake  to  say;  but  it  is  an 
undisputed  fact  that  he  not  only  stared  her  out  of 
countenance  in  passing,  but  turned  and  looked  after 
her  in  a  much  livelier  manner  than  one  would  have 
believed  possible  in  seeing  him  mount  the  hill  a  little 
while  before. 

Mary  had  a  rather  uncomfortable  sensation,  but 
she  was  "not  a  bit  afraid."  He  wouldn't  dare  say 
anything  to  her,  and  she  was  "plenty  big  enough  and 
old  enough  to  look  out  for  herself!"  She  did  not 
know  that  she  was  a  bait  for  just  this  sort  of  fish, 
but  she  was  conscious  as  she  turned  down  the  lane, 
that  he  was  Loking  l-ack  after  her,  and  she  almost 
wished  she  had  waited  for  Catharine.  She  went 
resolutely  forward,  however,  and  reached  the  barn- 
yard quite  reassured.  She  put  up  her  easel  and  camp- 


A   "SPOILED   CHILD"  87 

stool,  and  filled  her  water-can  at  a  pipe  through  which 
a  spring  eternally  trickled  into  a  disused  sheep-trough 
near  by.  What  a  very  quiet  place  it  was !  It  seemed 
so  different  without  John.  She  thought  she  would 
not  come  again  till  he  was  with  her,  but  now  she  would 
make  the  most  of  her  time  and  surprise  him.  She 
would  put  in  the  dark  background  behind  those 
beautiful  round  posts,  whose  whiteness  was  tempered 
by  so  many  spots  of  delicious,  mouldy,  licheny  color. 
The  ragged  edge  of  the  overhanging  hay-loft  was  not 
quite  right  in  her  drawing;  she  wished  she  had  John's 
to  look  at.  This  sun  made  perfect  light  and  shade. 
She  was  sure  that  sepia  was  too  brown  to  use  in  the 
shadow;  neutral  tint  with  a  touch  of  rose  and  green 
and  yellow  would  be  best,  but  there  was  a  brownish 
color,  especially  in  the  corner. 

"You've  got  a  very  pretty  place  for  your  work, 
Miss,"  a  voice  said  not  far  from  her.  She  was  startled 
beyond  all  power  of  self-possession.  How  could  he 
have  got  there  without  her  seeing  or  hearing  him? 
There  was  something  sinister  in  that  fact,  as  well 
as  in  the  look  on  his  face,  which  turned  her  hot  and 
cold,  she  hardly  knew  why.  His  tone  was  quite 
respectful,  but  his  eyes  were —  well,  anyhow  she  hated 
and  feared  him. 

"Now  if  I  knew  how  to  paint  I  would  never  waste 
my  time  on  an  old  shack  like  that."  He  approached 
her  without  haste,  as  though  to  look  at  the  sketch. 
She  had  risen  at  sight  of  him,  and  now  lifted  the  stool 
with  some  undefined  purpose.  He  turned  his  leering 
eyes  on  her  face  as  she  drew  back.  "I  would  paint 
something  better  worth  while."  Mary's  emotion 


88  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

only  heightened  the  "worth  while,"  and  he  moved 
another  step  toward  her. 

"But  I'd  just  as  soon  have  a  kiss  as  a  picture,  and 
I  like  'em  all  the  better  when  they're  not  too  easy  to 
get." 

He  made  a  sudden  attempt  to  seize  the  camp- 
stool  and  her  waist  at  the  same  time,  but  she  was  lithe 
and  robust.  She  drew  away  like  a  flash,  and  brought 
the  legs  of  the  stool  around  across  his  face  with  a 
suddenness  and  strength  that  sent  him  reeling  back- 
ward. He  was  livid  now,  but  he  took  a  moment  to 
collect  himself  before  beginning  a  second  round  with 
this  young  Amazon;  and  that  moment  she  used  to 
advantage.  Throwing  the  stool  as  far  behind  her 
as  she  could,  she  seized  the  easel  and  rushed  at  him, 
swinging  its  long,  tough  legs  from  side  to  side  in  truly 
formidable  style.  Too  astonished  to  do  more  than 
raise  his  arm  to  his  head,  the  cowardly  ruffian  received 
a  blow  that  sent  him  down  on  the  ground  like  a  log, 
with  no  inclination  to  get  up  at  once.  Mary  did  not 
stop  to  see  whether  she  might  have  killed  him,  but 
took  to  her  heels  with  as  much  energy  as  she  had 
shown  in  the  fight,  never  letting  go  her  weapon. 
She  did  not  slacken  speed  till  she  reached  the  road 
and  saw  Catharine's  matronly  figure  advancing  under 
the  trees  not  far  off;  then  she  gave  a  look  behind, 
but  could  see  no  one. 

Catharine's  heated  face  took  on  a  look  of  absolute 
terror  as  Mary  rushed  toward  her,  and  its  expression 
was  not  altered  for  the  better  when  she  had  heard 
the  gasping  recital.  She  was  far  more  alarmed  than 
her  ignorant,  wrong-headed  charge,  who  treated  the 


A  "SPOILED   CHILD"  89 

matter,  now  that  it  was  over,  as  almost  a  joke,  and 
was  not  a  little  elated  at  her  own  performance.  On 
that  point  Catharine  did  not  gainsay  her.  She  had 
had  many  experiences  of  the  independence  and 
resourcefulness  of  this  young  person  as  a  child,  but 
she  was  amazed  at  her  coolness  and  presence  of  mind 
now.  The  last  weeks  had  gone  far  to  prove  her 
more  dependent  than  of  old. 

The  trouble  was  that  she  seemed  to  have  no  con- 
ception of  the  seriousness  of  the  matter,  and  Catharine 
hesitated  to  open  her  eyes,  or  give  her  more  fear 
than  was  necessary  for  prudence.  If  only  Mr.  Brown 
were  here!  But  what  would  he  say  to  her  for  her 
dereliction  from  duty?  (For  thus  she  put  it  to  her- 
self.) She  had  hardly  a  word  to  answer  to  Mary's 
excited  chatter  as  they  traversed  the  short  distance 
to  their  own  gate.  She  felt  so  sick  and  faint,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  would  never  be  able  to  reach 
that  longed-for  haven,  and  in  spite  of  the  heat  her 
face  was  as  nearly  white  as  the  nature  of  her  com- 
plexion permitted. 

Great  was  their  astonishment  to  see  John's  tall 
figure  coming  toward  them  from  the  porch,  where 
he  had  waited,  not  knowing  which  way  to  look  for 
them.  There  was  no  time  to  find  out  the  cause  of 
his  unexpected  and  welcome  appearance,  for  his 
first  glance  at  the  two  faces  told  him  that  something 
unusual  and  exciting  had  happened.  The  soft  rings 
of  hair  about  Mary's  face  and  neck  were  dripping 
with  perspiration.  He  took  out  his  handkerchief, 
shook  out  its  immaculate  folds  and  dried  her  hot 
face  as  though  she  had  been  a  little  child,  asking, 


90  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

in  some  anxiety,  for  an  explanation.  It  was  not 
immediately  forthcoming. 

Catharine's  tongue  seemed  to  cleave  to  the  roof 
of  her  mouth,  and  Mary  was  considering  where  to 
begin  when  his  eye  fell  on  the  broken  easel.  He 
grasped  her  arm  almost  fiercely,  and  asked  what  it 
meant.  Mary,  to  do  her  justice,  made  no  more 
than  necessary  of  the  story,  and  tried  to  clear  Catha- 
rine of  the  blame  with  which  that  penitent  soul  was 
heaping  herself.  She  ended  with,  "he  was  nothing 
but  a  sneak  who  thought  he  could  go  about  kissing 
girls";  but  John's  face  frightened  her  before  she 
reached  this  point,  and  his  grasp  of  her  arm  hurt  her 
so  much  that  she  cried  out.  He  relaxed  his  hold, 
but  in  mechanical  fashion,  without  asking  her  pardon. 
He  asked  instead,  so  fiercely  that  she  drew  away  from 
him:  "Did  he  kiss  you?  Did  he  touch  you?"  Again 
he  almost  shook  her. 

"Do  you  think  I  would  let  him?"  she  rejoined  with 
offended  dignity.  Then  she  added  with  pardonable 
pride:  "I  swung  the  easel  around  as  hard  as  I  could 
and  hit  him  on  the  head,  and  he  fell  down,  and  I 
ran  away  as  fast  as  lightning." 

"She  may  have  killed  him,  for  he  never  followed 
her,  and  those  legs  have  brass  points!"  was  Catha- 
rine's excited  comment.  Without  waiting  for  another 
word,  John  was  off  at  top  speed. 

"What  did  he  want  to  do?"  Mary  wondered. 
"To  find  out  whether  the  man  was  dead?  Of  course 
he  wasn't  dead!"  A  nervous  shudder  went  through 
her  at  the  idea.  "He  was  just  a  coward  who  didn't 
dare  come  after  her!" 


A  "SPOILED   CHILD"  91 

John  was  back  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  carrying 
the  remains  of  the  scattered  sketching  outfit  and 
drying  his  face  in  much  more  vigorous  fashion  than 
he  had  followed  with  Mary's.  Only  Catharine  was 
on  the  porch  to  greet  him.  He  told  her  briefly  that 
he  had  seen  no  one,  and  had  found  only  the  scattered 
objects  which  he  still  held.  He  had  hurried  back 
for  fear  of  the  villain's  lurking  somewhere  near  the 
cottage.  He  sank  down  on  the  nearest  chair,  and 
Catharine  forebore  any  comment,  seeing  that  he 
was  utterly  unnerved.  He  looked  like  a  man  enduring 
some  sharp  physical  pain. 

"Where  is  Mary?"  he  asked  after  a  long  silence. 

"She  went  up  to  her  room." 

"Would  you  send  her  down  to  me?  I  want  to 
speak  to  her,"  he  said  wearily. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  our  heroine  was  not 
in  an  admirable  frame  of  mind;  for  she  had  been 
much  hurt  at  John's  incomprehensible  behavior  to 
her.  "  She  ought  not  to  have  gone  to  the  farm  alone, 
perhaps,  but  it  wasn't  a  very  dreadful  thing  to  do; 
and  he  had  looked  at  her  so  sternly  he  frightened 
her,  and  had  hurt  her  arm  badly."  She  looked  in 
the  glass  at  the  injured  member  as  she  changed  her 
damp  clothes,  and  tears  rose  to  her  eyes  as  she  saw 
the  marks  of  his  powerful  fingers  distinct  on  the 
white  skin.  They  came  still  faster  as  she  told  herself 
that  her  father  would  never  have  been  so  harsh  with 
her.  He  would  have  understood  why  she  had  been 
impatient  to  commence  her  work,  and  he  would  have 
praised  her  for  being  brave  and  self-reliant;  he  had 
tried  to  teach  her  to  be  independent,  but  John  had 


92  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

never  thought  of  that!  She  had  been  more  nervous 
than  she  knew,  and  she  found  it  hard  to  stop  crying, 
once  fairly  launched  on  the  luxurious  course  of  self- 
pity.  But  she  was  not  going  to  cry  before  John; 
she  was  going  to  be  very  dignified  and  let  him  see  that 
he  had  offended  her,  and  make  him  beg  her  pardon 
for  being  so  rough.  The  memory  of  all  his  tenderness 
and  care  rose  up  in  her  throat  and  choked  her,  but 
"she  had  never  done  anything  he  disapproved  before." 

When  she  heard  his  returning  steps  she  hastened 
her  toilet  and  bathed  her  eyes.  She  was  arrayed  in  a 
fresh  white  lawn  frock,  with  her  favorite  blue  ribbons, 
when  Catharine  came  to  seek  her,  and  she  drew  out 
a  string  of  gold  beads  that  the  Swiss  doctor  had 
given  her,  and  fastened  them  around  her  neck.  Some 
obscure  instinct  made  her  want  to  look  as  pretty  as 
possible,  and  as  much  like  a  young  lady.  No  such 
thought  had  ever  entered  her  head  before  with 
reference  to  John,  but  she  wanted  to  impress  him, 
and  conciliate  him  at  the  same  time.  Her  heart 
was  aching  as  well  as  her  dignity. 

"Perhaps  he  was  sorry  he  had  been  so  cross,  and 
had  sent  for  her  to  make  up,"  she  thought  as  she  went 
slowly  down  the  stairs.  "Perhaps  it  was  just  because 
he  was  worried." 

As  she  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  against 
the  dark  background  of  the  little  entry,  she  made  a 
picture  of  such  extraordinary  loveliness  that  John 
was  dazzled.  He  rose,  but  stood  motionless,  his 
grave  eyes  resting  on  her  with  an  expression  she 
could  not  understand;  the  smile  she  hoped  for  did 
not  come,  nor  any  word  of  regret  for  being  "cross." 


A  "SPOILED   CHILD"  93 

"Mary,"  he  said  sternly,  his  brows  contracting 
with  what  looked  like  displeasure,  "I  want  you  to 
promise  me  never  to  go  outside  the  gate  again  with- 
out Catharine  or  me." 

Mary's  lips  quivered,  but  she  answered  with  spirit: 
"Why,  John,  I  wouldn't  think  of  promising  such  a 
thing.  I  don't  want  to  be  penned  up  like  a 
baby!  Lots  of  children  go  along  this  road  every 
day!" 

John  was  staggered.  He  thought  she  had  had 
an  object  lesson  more  effective  than  any  request, 
but  an  overpowering  sense  of  his  responsibility,  a 
sudden  doubt  of  his  power  over  her,  seized  him.  He 
recalled  the  accounts  of  her  waywardness  and  self- 
will.  What  imprudence  might  she  not  be  capable 
of?  He  went  toward  her  and  seized  her  hand:  "If 
you  will  not  do  as  I  ask,  I  shall  have  to  write  to  Miss 
Newlin  to  let  me  put  you  at  once  under  her  care," 
he  said. 

She  shook  off  his  hand,  and  drew  herself  up  with  an 
air  of  defiance  that  made  her  look  years  older. 

"You  wouldn't  dare  to  treat  me  so!"  she  declared 
passionately.  "I  am  not  a  child!" 

She  had  never  been  more  of  a  spoiled  child  than  at 
that  moment,  and  if  John's  unruly  heart  had  not 
played  havoc  with  his  judgment  he  would  have 
recognized  the  cause  of  this  ebullition  and  been  partly 
amused  by  it.  As  it  was,  he  winced,  and  turned  as 
white  as  though  she  had  struck  him  in  the  face. 
He  seemed  to  himself  to  be  standing  at  that  Rubicon 
that  he  had  once  dreaded,  but  lately  forgotten.  He 
looked  steadily  in  the  beautiful,  hostile  eyes  and 


94  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

believed  that  he  was  staking  what  he  cared  for  most 
in  the  world,  when  he  answered  as  steadily:  "I  will 
'dare'  to  do  what  I  think  right." 

Blinded  as  he  was,  it  required  courage  worthy  of 
the  Victoria  Cross  to  stand  to  his  guns;  the  next 
moment  the  Cross  was  awarded  him.  His  arm  was 
clasped  in  both  her  hands,  and  her  face  buried  against 
it.  "Oh,  John,  forgive  me,"  she  said  brokenly. 
"I  will  promise  anything  you  want,  only  don't  send 
me  away  from  Catharine  and  from  you!" 

The  revulsion  of  feeling  was  so  sudden,  and  over- 
powering that  a  short  sharp  sound  like  a  sob  burst 
from  John's  swelling  chest.  He  was  perfectly  still 
for  a  moment;  then  he  took  the  hands  from  his  arm 
and  held  them  fast.  She  saw  that  his  eyes  were  wet. 

Mary  was  in  waters  beyond  her  depth.  She  knew 
he  was  not  angry  with  her;  but  she  must  have  hurt 
his  feelings  very  much.  She  wanted  some  warmer, 
less  solemn  token  of  forgiveness.  "  Won't  you  kiss 
me?"  she  asked  wistfully,  and  John  put  a  very  big 
stone  in  his  new  dyke  as  he  stooped  and  kissed  her 
cheek. 

"I  don't  know  what  made  me  so  hateful, 
John!" 

"I  think  I  understand  it  all  very  well,"  John 
answered,  "and  I  dare  say  I  am  unreasonable  in  my 
fears.  I  hate  to  curtail  your  liberty  in  the  smallest 
degree.  You  need  all  we  can  give  you."  (He  was 
thinking  of  her  long  years  of  confinement.)  "But — 
if  I  am  obliged  to  be  a  little  tyrannical,  some  day, 
perhaps,  you  will  understand  and  forgive  me  even 
a  mistake  in  judgment." 


A   "SPOILED   CHILD"  95 

They  spent  a  rather  silent  evening.  All  seemed 
disinclined  for  conversation,  and  John's  mind  and 
heart  were  full  of  matters  of  which  he  could  not 
speak.  He  asked  very  few  questions  about  the 
afternoon's  adventure.  He  preferred  going  without 
more  information  to  touching  again  upon  that  pain- 
ful subject.  He  was  revolving  the  chances  of  bringing 
the  miscreant  to  account,  but  felt  he  could  not  do 
that.  He  would  rather  leave  the  man  unpunished — 
fiercely  indignant  as  he  felt — than  run  the  risk  of 
bringing  this  innocent  child  before  a  court  or  magis- 
trate. 

He  overstayed  his  usual  time,  but  suddenly  recol- 
lected that  Mary  ought  to  be  in  bed,  and  rose  to  go. 

"Mary,"  he  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  "I  have 
been  thinking  that  I  should  like  to  get  away  from  the 
hot  city  for  a  while,  and  that  I  might  take  you  and 
Catharine  to  the  seashore  somewhere  for  a  few  weeks." 
He  did  not  say,  "where  I  could  have  you  constantly 
under  my  eye,"  but  one,  at  least,  of  his  hearers  under- 
stood and  felt  a  guilty  pang. 

"It  would  be  great  for  me,"  he  went  on,  without 
waiting  for  any  answer,  "and  you  could  have  much 
more  liberty  to  roam  around.  If  you  would  let  me 
be  somewhere  in  call,  I  would  take  a  book,  and  you 
could  try  to  forget  I  was  anywhere  about,  and  go 
exactly  where  you  liked  without  consulting  me." 

The  novel,  humble  proposition  touched  Mary  to 
the  quick;  for  she  saw  that  it  was  perfectly  genuine, 
and  without  a  taint  of  wounded  self-love.  She 
leaned  her  head  against  his  arm,  and,  though  he  could 
not  see  her  upturned  face  distinctly  in  the  darkness, 


96  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

there  was  a  sound  of  tears  in  her  voice  as  she  said 
eagerly,  "Why,  John,  I  don't  like  to  be  alone,  and  I 
would  rather  have  you  with  me  than  anything  in 
the  world!" 


CHAPTER  X 
JOHN  PLANS  A  TEST 

THAT  evening  as  John  reached  his  solitary 
home,  pondering  the  events  of  the  day  and 
his  new  plan,  his  eye  fell  on  a  little  book  that 
a  cricketing  acquaintance  had  lent  him  in  the  morn- 
ing. "A  fascinating  study  in  human  nature,"  he 
had  said.  John  was  fond  of  studying  "human 
nature";  but  if  he  picked  up  the  book,  as  he  seated 
himself  in  his  big  chair  by  the  library  table,  it  was 
only  to  "give  himself  a  countenance."  John  Patter- 
son looked  disapprovingly  at  the  performance.  In 
his  opinion  it  was  high  time  to  be  going  to  bed, 
and  he  never  could  see  why  people  wanted  to  sit  up 
"all  hours"  and  spoil  a  good  night's  sleep.  John 
told  him  that  he  would  attend  to  closing  the  windows 
when  he  was  ready  to  go  up,  and  the  faithful  fac- 
totum went  reluctantly  to  bed,  after  warning  his 
master  of  a  threatened  shower.  If  he  had  seen  John 
sitting  motionless  hour  after  hour,  without  turning 
a  page,  his  wonder  would  have  turned  to  anxiety. 
Now  that  John's  excitement  and  passion  were  sub- 
siding— and  he  had  not  known  that  anything  could 
so  stir  him — his  thoughts  concentrated  on  the 
study  of  "human  nature"  that  was  his  daily,  and, 
indeed,  often  his  nightly,  preoccupation.  In  this 
7  (97) 


98  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

season  of  idleness,  cut  off  by  the  circumstances  from 
even  his  accustomed  sport,  and  with  few  associates, 
and  an  acknowledged  void  in  his  life  made  by  the 
absence  of  young  womanhood,  it  wras  not  strange 
that  fate  had  him  in  her  grasp.  He  would  have 
been  horrified  to  have  thought  himself  "in  love."  The 
term  constantly  used  to  describe  every  shade  of 
passion  from  the  noblest  to  the  most  vulgar,  would 
have  seemed  a  positive  indelicacy  toward  this  uncon- 
scious childhood  which  was  his  to  guard.  And  yet 
he  knew  that  he  loved  her  with  aching  intensity. 
This  student  of  facts  and  righter  of  wrongs  was  also 
a  reader  of  poetry  and  dreamer  of  dreams,  and  had 
been  storing  up  a  hoard  of  sentiment  and  passion 
that  he  had  as  little  thought  of  ever  spending  upon 
a  living  woman  as  the  miser  has  of  squandering  his 
treasured  gold.  He  had  always  put  marriage  out 
of  his  calculations  for  the  simple  but  sufficient  reason 
that  no  one  who  would  satisfy  his  romantic  heart 
(and  hearts  can  be  just  as  romantic  in  ugly  bodies) 
would  ever  be  at  all  likely  to  fall  in  love  with  him. 
He  was  not  entirely  humble,  nor  had  he  entered  the 
lodge  gates  of  middle  age  without  having  encoun- 
tered soft  glances  on  the  highway  of  life;  he  did  not 
call  himself  a  " Caliban"  nor  was  he  looking  for  a 
"Miranda,"  for,  with  all  his  day  dreams,  he  never 
encroached  on  that  corner  of  heart  or  brain  where 
common  sense  is,  or  should  be,  lodged.  But  he  had 
a  very  exalted  ideal  of  married  life,  and  felt  himself 
strong  enough  to  set  aside  any  temptation  to  com- 
promise. 

He   closed   his   eyes   as   the   memory   of   Mary's 


JOHN  PLANS  A  TEST  99 

frankly  offered  lips  came  vividly  before  them.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  she  had  no  sex  consciousness  at 
sixteen  years?  Or  was  it  only  that  he  was  so  out 
of  the  line  of  possible  romance  that — ?  His  hands 
closed  tightly  over  the  book  on  his  knee,  as  the 
vision  of  her  eyes  tormented  him.  She  looked  on 
him  as  her  father's  chosen  substitute  or  she  would 
not  have  thought  of  kissing  him!  He  tried  to  recall 
what  Margaret  had  been  like  at  sixteen.  Yes,  she 
had  been  just  sixteen  on  those  first  Christmas  holi- 
days. He  smiled  at  the  recollection  of  the  dinner 
and  theater  parties,  the  cotillions  and  engagements 
to  walk  or  skate;  the  budding  romances  shyly  con- 
fided to  him  who  "never  thought  her  silly  nor  teased 
her."  How  fond  of  her  he  had  been,  and  how  proud 
of  her  popularity  and  quiet  savoir  faire!  Affec- 
tionate, merry,  but  perfectly  sophisticated,  she  had 
managed  her  little  court  with  a  mixture  of  good 
humor  and  dignity  very  pretty  to  see,  and  not  the 
less  so  for  the  dash  of  coquetry  that  belonged  of 
right  to  a  general  favorite.  It  would  not  have 
occurred  to  her  to  kiss  her  father's  dearest  and  most 
intimate  friend,  and  she  would  have  been  confused 
or  offended  if  he  had  taken  such  a  liberty.  And 
Mary — could  she,  however  exceptional  her  up- 
bringing, could  she,  with  a  beauty  and  presence  that 
made  Margaret's  fair  share  of  good  looks  a  negligible 
quantity,  have  the  unconsciousness  of  a  little  child? 
She  must  miss  her  father  tremendously.  It  was 
loneliness  and  the  habit  of  being  fondled  that  made 
her  constantly  invite  his  caresses;  that  slipped  her 
hand  into  his  when  she  wanted  comfort.  Once  he 


100  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

had  drawn  his  away  roughly  because  she  had  kissed 
it,  and  had  told  her  in  peremptory  fashion  "never 
to  do  that."  He  recalled  with  a  pang  of  remorse 
the  proud  lips  and  starting  tears  with  which  she  had 
told  him  that  "Father  never  minded."  What  was 
there  left  for  him  but  to  be  as  tenderly  paternal  as 
possible  and  try  to  efface  the  impression  his  rudeness 
had  left? 

Would  she  have  looked  at  him  with  those  clear, 
unwavering  eyes  if  he  had  kissed  her  lips  instead 
of  her  cheek?  He  colored  hotly  at  the  importunate 
thought.  Her  lips  were  not  for  him.  That  closed 
bud  of  her  womanhood  was  sacred.  But  he  must 
not  kiss  her  at  all!  He  must  wean  her  from  habits 
that  would  seem  to  most  people  unfitting  even  now, 
and  would  be  sure  to  cause  disagreeable  comment 
later  on.  But  not  now!  Not  while  she  needed  all 
he  could  give!  Boarding  school  would  change 
everything;  meanwhile  he  would  just  accept  the 
Garden  of  Eden  that  was  offered  him;  for  he  knew 
that,  this  summer  past,  the  angel  with  the  flaming 
sword  would  guard  the  gates. 

Would  a  time  ever  come — ?  He  put  the  thought 
from  him,  but  the  memory  of  her  last  words  brought 
it  back  with  a  force  that  would  not  be  gainsaid. 
He  had  told  himself  many  times,  without  bitterness, 
that  no  woman  could  fall  in  love  with  such  a  down- 
right ugly,  uncouth  person  as  he — at  least  none  but 
a  starved  and  humble  one;  but  might  God  have 
given  him  the  one  opportunity  in  a  thousand  of 
training  a  woman  to  love  him  through  dependence 
upon  him,  and  inner  congeniality?  ***** 


101 


George  Raymond  had  just  moved  his  family, 
which  consisted  of  his  mother  and  two  sisters,  down 
to  a  cottage  at  Cape  May;  but  he  himself  was  always 
rather  a  bird  of  passage,  never  taking  long  vacations, 
and  usually  lodging  at  the  Art  Club  and  taking  his 
meals  where  it  chanced.  He  often  dropped  in  upon 
John  at  meal  times  or  of  an  evening,  but  now  he 
quizzically  remarked  that  breakfast  was  the  only 
meal  he  was  sure  of. 

John  hoped  much  that  he  would  appear  on  this 
particular  morning,  and  he  was  not  disappointed. 
And  in  five  minutes  after  John  Patterson  had  left 
them  to  themselves,  as  he  always  did,  John  Brown 
had  laid  his  present  difficulty  before  his  friend  and 
told  him  the  bald  facts  of  the  event  of  the  day  before. 
He  eagerly  awaited  some  expression  of  opinion, 
which  George  did  not  seem  in  a  hurry  to  give.  He 
was  evidently  impressed  with  the  gravity  of  John's 
responsibility,  and  made  an  admiring  exclamation 
when  he  heard  of  Mary's  rout  of  the  enemy;  then 
he  sat  silent  for  some  time,  quietly  eating  his  breakfast. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  old  man,"  he  said  at  last, 
with  the  outspokenness  they  were  accustomed  to  use 
toward  each  other,  "I  think  you'll  be  making  a  mis- 
take if  you  try  to  keep  too  tight  a  rein  on  her.  Girls 
are  kittle-cattle,  and  this  one  must  be  independent 
and  plucky.  I  could  tell  better  what  I  thought  if 
I  saw  her  once." 

"That  is  just  what  I  was  going  to  suggest,"  John 
broke  in  eagerly.  The  wish  had  come  to  him  last 
night  that  he  might  see  her  behavior  with  a  young 
man — well — with  George  at  least.  George  looked  as 


102  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

much  younger  than  his  thirty  years  as  John,  himself, 
looked  older  than  his  thirty-four,  and  George  was 
good-looking,  graceful,  immaculately  dressed — alto- 
gether the  comme  il  faut  man  of  the  world  in  appear- 
ance, with  as  honest  gentleman-like  a  heart  as  ever 
beat.  John  could  not  help  a  tiny  jealous  pang  as 
he  made  the  comparison  in  his  mind  between  George 
and  himself;  but  he  would  have  to  face  worse  jealousy 
some  day  perhaps,  and  the  discipline  would  be 
wholesome. 

"Why  couldn't  you  go  out  with  me  this  afternoon?" 
He  tried  to  say  it  easily. 

"I'd  be  glad  to,"  was  George's  laconic  answer, 
which  showed  little  of  the  delight  he  really  felt  at 
the  idea.  His  curiosity  on  the  subject  was  as  keen, 
at  the  very  least,  as  either  John  Patterson's  or 
Hannah's,  and  he  hailed  with  relish  the  opportunity 
of  satisfying  it  at  once. 

On  the  way  out  that  afternoon  he  told  John  that 
he  had  thought  of  just  the  thing  for  the  vacation 
outing.  "Fred  Branson  spoke  to  me  last  month 
about  his  cottage  at  Beach  Haven — way  up  at  the 
north  end,  you  know — and  I  knew  my  family  wouldn't 
like  it  there:  it's  too  quiet.  But  it  occurred  to  me, 
after  I  was  talking  to  you  this  morning,  and  I  dropped 
in  to  see  him.  It's  rather  simple  and  bare,  I  believe, 
and  it  hasn't  been  rented.  He  says  if  you  would 
take  it  for  a  few  weeks  he'd  let  you  have  it  for  a 
song." 

John's  eyes  brightened  and  his  color  rose,  but  he 
said  nothing  at  once;  a  castle  in  the  air  was  evidently 
in  the  course  of  hurried  construction.  "I  wonder  if 


JOHN  PLANS  A  TEST  103 

Mrs.  Wharton  would  come  down  and  matronize  the 
establishment?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Mrs.  Wharton  would  break  a  whole  list  of  engage- 
ments to  do  you  a  good  turn,"  was  George's  warm 
comment;  then,  as  though  a  thought  had  just  struck 
him:  "I  suppose  you  wouldn't  want  to  take  Mary 
up  to  North  East?" 

"Oh,  no,"  John  answered  emphatically.  "It  is 
too  far  off  for  this  business  of  Dick's  estate,  and  too 
gay  for  her  now.  Mary  wouldn't  be  fitted  out  for 
any  such  place,  either,  I  think,  and  besides" — he 
hesitated — "I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  my  mother 
would  enjoy  having  her." 

"Or  vice  versa,"  was  George's  mental  comment. 

"Mrs.  Wharton  would  like  her,  I  know,"  John 
remarked  with  unconscious  significance. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  TEST  SUCCEEDS 

AS  they  started  up  the  well-worn  path  toward 
the  cottage,  John  unconsciously  put  his  com- 
panion's walking  abilities  to  a  pretty  severe 
test,  though  John  Patterson's  predicted  shower  had 
cooled  the  air.     His  feverish  heart  again  slipped  the 
leash  of  his  judgment,  and  beat  as  the  hearts  of  those 
must  have  beaten  who  were  about  to  consult  an  oracle 
on  a  vital  issue.     John's  oracle  was  to  speak  in  no 
equivocal  terms,  however,  and  the  suspense  was  not 
to  be  long. 

He  had  distanced  George,  to  the  latter's  amusement, 
by  at  least  a  hundred  yards,  when  he  came  in  view  of 
the  white  figure  on  the  cottage  steps.  She  sprang 
up,  and  in  a  moment  was  through  the  gate  and  com- 
ing quickly  along  the  path  to  meet  him.  Meantime 
a  comico-tragic  exclamation  from  George  had  made 
John  halt  and  look  back,  and  before  Mary  reached 
him  she  saw  that  he  was  not  alone,  and  checked  her 
steps,  with  her  eyes  on  the  stranger.  John's  own 
never  left  her  face  while  he  took  her  hand  and  went 
through  the  commonplace  form  of  presentation. 
He  felt  like  a  "Peeping  Tom"  to  so  mercilessly  sound 
the  deeps  that  were  reflected  in  her  transparent  face; 
the  more  so  that  she  never  even  noticed  his  scrutiny. 

(104) 


THE  TEST  SUCCEEDS  105 

She  was  looking  at  George  with  the  naive  admiration 
of  a  child,  but  answered  his  greeting  with  a  dignified 
shyness  that  was  new  to  John.  The  sudden  lowering 
of  the  lids  under  George's  equally  frank  gaze,  and 
the  softly  fluctuating  color  told  plainly  of  that  self- 
consciousness  which  is  the  token  of  awakening 
womanhood.  She  had  never  showed  anything  of  this 
to  him,  and  yet  he  told  himself  with  the  nearest 
approach  to  bitterness  he  had  ever  harbored,  that  he 
was  only  four  years  older  than  George !  The  tumul- 
tuous beating  of  his  heart  gave  place  to  a  quiet  that 
was  like  an  aching  emptiness,  a  lassitude  that  reached 
to  the  very  palms  of  his  hands. 

The  two  were  too  much  taken  up  with  each  other 
to  pay  any  heed  to  him  as  they  all  seated  themselves 
on  the  low  steps  which  till  now  Mary  had  shared 
only  with  him.  He  was  not  looking  at  her,  and  did 
not  even  hear  what  they  were  saying  as  he  sat,  bent 
forward,  prodding  the  ground  with  a  stick.  Suddenly 
he  heard  George  say:  "Won't  you  show  them  to  me?" 
and  her  ready  assent,  as  she  went  in  search,  no  doubt, 
of  the  precious  sketches. 

An  eloquent  "Gee  whiz,  John!"    followed  her  exit. 

John  turned  and  answered  by  a  smile  bright  enough, 
almost,  to  deceive  the  friend  who  was  clever  only  where 
his  affections  were  involved. 

"Mary,  George  can  give  you  lots  of  points.  He  is 
a  real  artist,  you  know,  as  well  as  an  architect," 
he  said  as  she  came  back  carrying  an  improvised 
portfolio.  His  words  were  quietly  matter-of-fact, 
and  his  eyes  had  a  steady  gentleness  as  he  turned 
them  toward  her  but  something  in  them  recalled  the 


106  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

day  before,  and  her  lips  trembled.  Quick  as  thought 
she  was  by  his  side,  and  had  deliberately  drawn  his 
arm  around  her  and  pressed  close  to  him.  The  action 
told  clearly  what  she  would  not  put  into  words. 
George  felt  a  mist  come  before  his  eyes,  and  he  did 
not  look  at  John.  Was  it  possible!  Poor  old  John! 
Yet,  why  poor? 

"You  don't  care  to  swap  horses  crossing  a  stream," 
he  said  genially.  It  was  not  a  question. 

She  smiled  a  very  sweet  little  smile  as  she  busied 
herself  with  the  portfolio  on  her  lap.  The  stirring 
of  her  deepest  feeling  had  destroyed  even  her  uncon- 
scious consciousness,  but  she  seemed  to  feel  words 
unnecessary. 

"I  don't  know  anybody  who  would  be  willing  to 
swap  your  horse,"  George  went  on,  looking  straight 
into  her  eyes  as  she  raised  them  again,  his  face  soft 
with  affectionate  approval:  "Once  we  have  John  on 
our  side,  nothing  else  counts." 

"George!"  John  remonstrated  with  heightened 
color.  His  lips  actually  trembled,  but  whether  at 
George's  words  or  because  of  the  bright  head  that 
leaned  back  against  him,  his  loyal  friend  forbore  to 
ask  himself. 

"It  is  true,"  was  Mary's  grave  rejoinder. 

George  leaned  forward  and  held  out  his  hand  to  her: 
"Mary,  we  ought  to  be  good  friends,  we  have  such  a 
bond —  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Farnham,  but  I  feel 
as  though  I  knew  you  well  and  you  are  so  different 
from  other  girls!" 

"I  like  you  to  call  me  Mary  because  you  are  John's 
best  friend" — she  stopped  suddenly,  and  her  chin 


THE  TEST  SUCCEEDS  107 

quivered  with  a  memory  that  made  her  eyes  darken 
marvelously.  The  arm  around  her  grew  eloquent. 
George  only  said  a  simple  "Thank  you,"  and  they 
fell  to  examining  the  sketches.  It  was  not  till  later 
that  he  remembered  the  "John,"  and  then  it  seemed 
just  what  he  would  have  expected  her  to  say. 

Catharine's  appearance  at  the  door  just  then 
effected  a  diversion,  and  John  soon  rose  and  withdrew 
with  her  into  the  little  parlor,  leaving  the  two  to 
cement  their  friendship.  He  loved  that  parlor  already, 
and  he  had  an  unconscious  habit  of  studying  its  photo- 
graphs and  souvenirs  as  though,  through  them,  he 
were  trying  to  get  more  in  touch  with  all  Mary's 
past  life.  He  had  many  times  lifted  the  Bernese 
doll  off  the  mantel-shelf  and  half  caressed  it,  never 
dreaming  what  a  strange  picture  he  made.  He  did 
not  realize  that  it  was  in  his  hands  now,  as  he  laid  his 
plan  before  Catharine,  and  asked  her  cooperation. 

"Mr.  Brown,"  she  said  gravely,  "if  the  lady  ye 
are  thinking  of  could  go  with  ye  you  wouldn't  be 
needin'  me;  and  if  she  couldn't —  She  hesitated, 
her  eyes  on  the  doll;  but  John  did  not  help  her  out. 
"Of  course  you  know  better  than  me  that  it  wouldn't 
look  just  right  for  ye  to  have  Mary  with  ye  with  only 
a  maid,  like.  She's  gettin'  to  look  most  a  woman,  for 
all  she's  such  a  child  in  her  actions."  Then,  seeing 
John  about  to  interrupt  her,  she  went  on  quickly: 
"I  know  you  always  treat  me  as  if  I  was  a  lady,  and 
I  believe  ye  feel  the  same  to  everybody  if  ye  respect 
them.  Mr.  Farnham  was  that  way;  but  the  people 
ye'd  be  meeting  down  at  the  sea  would  likely  be  differ- 
ent and  think  different." 


108  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

John  stood  apparently  in  serious  consultation  with 
the  little  Bernese;  then  he  raised  his  head  and  looked 
at  Catharine  very  gravely  and  gently.  He  did  not 
contradict  her. 

"But  I  am  sure  I  can  get  Mrs.  Wharton  to  go,  and 
we  certainly  shall  need  you.  I  couldn't  think  of  taking 
Mary  away  from  you!" 

"Mary's  very  fond  of  me,  and  there  would  be  odd 
times  when  she  would  miss  me,  perhaps;  but" — she 
went  on  without  bitterness,  rather  as  though  the 
wonder  was  always  fresh  in  her,  and  out  of  the  abun- 
dance of  the  heart  the  mouth  spoke — "she  doesn't 
even  seem  to  miss  her  father  when  you  are  here!  I 
doubt  she'd  think  of  anything  else  if  she  had  ye  with 
her  all  the  time." 

She  saw  a  dark  flush  mount  to  John's  forehead,  and 
the  doll  suffered  in  his  powerful  hands.  "I  can  hardly 
believe  that,"  he  said  huskily. 

"You'll  forgive  me  if  I'm  takin'  a  liberty  to  say  so, 
but  it's  a  wonderful  power  the  Lord  has  given  ye  over 
people,  Mr.  Brown.  I've  often  wondered  what 
would  become  of  the  child  if  Mr.  Farnham  was  taken, 
for  it  wasn't  only  the  feelin'  a  loving  child  has  for  a 
father;  he  used  to  know  how  to  inters/  and  amuse 
her  so  ye  could  hardly  get  her  away  from  him  long 
enough  for  her  health;  and  since  I  left  'em,  she  has 
often  written  me  about  the  things  they  were  doing 
together,  and  studyin'  together — and  now — it  isn't 
that  she  forgets,  for  she's  always  talkin'  about  old 
times,  and  she  has  a  good  many  cryin'  spells  when  you 
are  away,  but — 

"But  she  is  very  young  and  perfectly  healthy," 


THE  TEST  SUCCEEDS  109 

John  broke  in  somewhat  unsteadily.  "We  older 
people"--  he  said  it  bravely — "find  it  harder  to  re- 
act." 

Catharine  made  a  faint  protest  against  John's 
classing  himself  with  her  as  to  age,  but  it  was  only 
a  faint  one.  In  reality  she  felt  him  entirely  middle- 
aged.  They  discussed  the  question  of  her  leaving 
her  garden  and  premises  for  long,  and  finally  com- 
promised on  her  going  with  them  for  two  weeks, 
and  Mary  returning  to  her  in  four  or  five.  John 
explained  it  all  to  Mary  and  suggested  wiring  Mrs. 
Wharton  that  they  would  both  take  lunch  with  her 
next  day  if  convenient. 

"It  will  give  you  a  chance  to  get  acquainted  and 
you  will  be  sure  to  like  each  other,"  he  said,  watching 
Mary's  dubious  face  with  some  suspense. 

George  strolled  to  the  garden,  leaving  the  trio  deep 
in  consultation,  and  by  the  time  he  got  back  every- 
thing seemed  satisfactorily  arranged.  John  and  he 
were  both  silent  for  half  the  distance  to  the  station. 

"Well?"  John  said  at  last,  glancing  at  his  friend's 
thoughtful  face. 

"John,  it  would  be  simple  cruelty  to  try  to  coop 
her  up!"  was  the  impetuous  answer:  "I  can't  even 
imagine  her  in  a  girl's  boarding-school !  Will  she  ever 
be  happy  there?"  He  was  sorry  for  the  thoughtless 
words  when  he  saw  the  look  on  John's  face. 

"I  hope  so,"  he  answered  dully,  "but  what  can  I 
do?" 

"Nothing,  of  course."  George's  thoughts  were 
flying  to  Mrs.  Brown.  "And,  no  doubt,  she  will  get 
on  finely;  but  it  seems  like  taking  a  fawn  out  of  the 


110  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

woods,  or  a  skylark  off  the  moors,  and  penning  them 
in  a  barn-yard  with  cows  and  chickens.  I  declare, 
I  never  felt  so  as  if  I  could  write  poetry  in  my  life!" 

John  turned  upon  him  a  very  bright  face  and  very 
oblique  lips.  Then  he  said  half  sadly:  "But  the  world 
is  full  of  cows  and  chickens!" 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  she  impresses  me,"  George 
went  on,  disregarding  the  comment.  "It  isn't  her 
looks  nor  her  cleverness — I  suppose  she  is  clever? — 
it  is  a  kind  of  indefinable  untamedness  and  uncon- 
sciousness about  her.  I  couldn't  help  wondering 
whether  it  came  from  being  brought  up  among  the 
snow-mountains.  She  would  look  at  home  coming 
down  off  the  Alps,  with  the  wind  blowing  her;  or 
rowing  a  lifeboat,  like  the  pictures  of  Grace  Darling." 

John  suddenly  put  his  arm  across  his  friend's  shoul- 
ders: "She  has  been  brought  up  beside  an  invalid's 
chair,"  he  said  quietly. 

"He  must  have  been  an  extraordinary  invalid!" 
was  George's  heart-felt  rejoinder.  He  had  never 
known  Dick  Farnham  well,  except  through  John. 
"He  knew  what  he  was  doing  when  he  left  her  in  your 
care,  old  man;  she  isn't  like  you,  but  she  fits  to  you 
like  a  cup  to  a  saucer." 

The  arm  was  suddenly  withdrawn  and  John  walked 
a  few  paces  ahead.  They  were  close  to  the  station 
now  and  the  train  was  in  sight.  George  did  not 
see  his  face  till  they  were  seated  in  the  car. 

"I  suppose  Miss  Newlin  will  let  you  go  to  see  her 
as  often  as  you  like?" 

"Hardly!"  was  the  dry  retort. 

George's  eyes  fell.     He  saw  the  hand  on  John's 


THE  TEST  SUCCEEDS  111 

knee  close.  He  loved  John's  hands;  they  were  so 
character-revealing  in  their  power,  dexterity,  gentle- 
ness. Nothing  further  was  said  on  the  short  journey. 

"It  is  the  sea  her  eyes  remind  me  of,  the  deep  sea, 
with  cloud-shadows  flying  across  it,"  George  said  to 
himself  as  he  walked  back  to  the  club.  He  said  it 
with  the  complete  satisfaction  of  one  who  has  finally 
grasped  an  elusive  title  or  tune;  then  he  added  with 
apparent  irrelevance,  "and  he  can't  run  away  from 
it  now!" 

Once,  years  ago,  he  had  said  quite  seriously :  "John, 
if  you  ever  fell  in  love — !"  The  hiatus  was  more 
expressive  than  words. 

"I  know  it  well  enough,"  John  had  replied  with 
equal  gravity;  "and  I  don't  mean  to  take  any  risks." 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHICH  SHOWS  THAT  A  STORK  CAN  MAKE  A  MISTAKE 

MRS.  WHARTON  sat  on  the  piazza  of  her 
country  home  with  an  open  letter  on  her  lap 
and  an  expression   of  soft  amusement  on 
her  face  that  was  almost,  but  not  quite,  a  smile. 

"Poor  Jane!"  she  said  aloud;  for  like  many  soli- 
tary people,  she  sometimes  forgot  and  thought  aloud. 
"She  is  not  far  wrong."  The  letter  was  a  long  one, 
written  in  the  close,  fine,  Spencerian  hand  so  common 
in  the  first  half  of  the  last  century,  so  rare  to-day. 
The  envelope,  which  had  fallen  on  the  board  floor, 
bore  the  postmark,  "Northeast  Harbor,  Me.,  July 
6,  188-" — the  last  figure  was  illegible. 

Mrs.  Wharton  spoke  no  more,  but  we  are  privileged 
to  read  thoughts,  or  even  to  peep  over  shoulders. 
The  plaintive  chronicle  of  a  mother's  trials  began 
with  some  local  details,  and  news  of  mutual  friends, 
but  soon  centered  on  the  question  that  was  upper- 
most in  the  lady's  mind.  The  top  of  the  open  page 
commenced  pathetically: 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  do  without  him  this  summer,  and  I 
don't  mean  to  be  selfish ;  but  it  would  be  a  very  different  thing  to 
feel  him  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  from  knowing  him  roast- 
ing there  in  the  city,  and  spending  his  whole  time  looking  after 
that  girl.  No  doubt  he  lets  her  feel  that  she  has  an  absolute 

(112) 


A  STORK  CAN  MAKE  A  MISTAKE     113 

claim  on  him  (you  know  John) ;  but  from  his  letters,  even  when 
he  doesn't  mention  being  out  at  Fernwood,  he  never  mentions 
being  anywhere  else.  There  is  never  a  word  about  cricket  or 
tennis,  or  any  of  the  things  that  used  to  take  up  so  much  of  his 
leisure  time,  nor  a  mention  of  any  man  except  George.  His 
letters  are  generally  short  and  there  is  something  unnatural 
about  them.  I  wish  someone  could  prevail  upon  him  to  come 
up  here  for  August.  I  don't  like  to  say  anything  more,  but  I  am 
sure  he  could  be  spared  by  that  time.  Now  that  you  are  home, 
won't  you  ask  him  out  for  a  night  and  talk  to  him,  and  let  me 
know  how  the  land  lies?  I  have  a  feeling  that  it  is  not  only  a 
matter  of  duty — of  fulfilling  his  trust  to  Dick  Farnham — but  that 
he  has  let  himself  get  so  wrapped  up  in  the  child  that  he  doesn't 
want  to  leave.  And  she  isn't  really  a  child  any  longer,  as  I  wrote 
you.  You  know  what  we  were  at  sixteen.  You  were  half  engaged 
to  Jim  Wharton,  and  I  was  dreaming  and  moping  over  poor 
James  Carey.  (What  a  life  I  would  have  had  if  I'd  ever  married 
him !)  I  can't  help  worrying  a  little  over  John.  He's  so  unused 
to  women!  And  to  have  one  literally  thrown  at  him  this  way, 
and  a  pretty  one!  He  confessed  to  me,  himself,  when  I  asked 
him  point-blank,  that  she  was  more  beautiful  than  her  mother; 
and  I  can't  forget  the  way  he  looked  when  he  said  it. 

It  was  on  this  part  of  the  letter  that  Mrs.  Wharton's 
mind  was  dwelling  as  her  eyes  rested  on  the  glory 
of  the  western  sky,  where  the  setting  sun  had  only 
just  disappeared.  The  remains  of  a  light  supper 
were  on  a  little  damask-covered  table  beside  her, 
for  her  enjoyment  of  out-of-doors  was  so  great  that 
most  of  her  meals  were  taken  on  one  or  other  of  the 
verandas  flanking  the  old  house.  A  generous  margin 
had  been  added  to  their  original  eight  feet  of  width, 
and  an  awning  on  the  south  one  made  it  seem  still 
more  spacious.  The  rooms  inside  were  very  homely, 
comfortable  ones;  but  Mrs.  Wharton  was  rarely 
to  be  found  in  them  in  the  daytime;  and,  when  she 


114  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

had  a  companion,  her  evenings,  too,  were  generally 
spent  outside. 

She  sat  gazing  at  the  heavens  till  the  vivid  rose 
color  changed  to  violet  and  then  faded  to  the  soft 
neutral  tints  of  evening,  while  the  moon  began  to 
throw  shadows  on  the  smooth  lawn  in  front  of  her. 
"It  will  be  clear  to-morrow  and  hot,"  she  said,  again 
thinking  aloud. 

The  maid  came  to  remove  the  little  supper  table. 
Then  her  ample  bosom  heaved  with  a  deep  sigh  and 
she  rose  and  moved  over  to  a  bed  of  sweet-scented 
flowers  close  by  the  piazza.  She  always  planted  that 
one  with  heliotrope,  mignonette,  rose  geraniums, 
lemon  verbenas  and  whatever  contributed  to  scent 
the  evening  air.  They  were  silent  companions  whose 
sweetness  was  almost  like  an  actual  beloved  person- 
ality to  her.  She  stooped  and  pulled  a  sprig  of  the 
verbena,  rubbing  its  leaves  between  her  fingers  and 
inhaling  its  aromatic  perfume.  Her  hands  were 
large,  with  knotted,  swollen  joints,  that  bore  witness 
to  an  enemy  always  lurking  near.  She  was  so  used 
to  his  assaults  that  she  refused  to  notice  them  or  be 
guided  by  the  many  friendly  recommendations  and 
warnings  offered  her.  She  sat  in  the  open  air  of  eve- 
nings just  as  she  had  always  done,  and  ate  her  straw- 
berries and  salads  with  unruffled  enjoyment.  For 
if  the  truth  must  out,  she  was  a  very  self-willed  per- 
son, with  strong,  emphatic  likes  and  dislikes,  and 
there  was  nobody  to  whose  opinion  she  felt  called 
upon  to  conform  since  her  husband  had  died  a  few 
years  before.  To  him  she  had  given  the  absolute 
allegiance  of  a  life-long  affection;  for  had  he  not, 


A  STORK  CAN  MAKE  A  MISTAKE     115 

as  Mrs.  Brown  had  just  reminded  her,  made  his 
first  timid  avowals  as  he  carried  her  books  home 
from  school?  She  had  been  almost  grateful  to  him 
for  that  steady,  unswerving  homage  paid  to  her 
when,  as  she  knew,  any  of  the  pretty  girls  would  have 
received  his  attention  with  alacrity.  She  had  never 
been  anything  approaching  pretty.  She  would  have 
been  positively  masculine  in  appearance  with  her 
tall,  powerful  figure,  strong  features  and  high  cheek- 
bones, except  for  a  something  expressive  of  a  possi- 
bility of  tenderness  as  well  as  indignation  in  her  large 
mouth,  with  its  thick  lips  and  strong  big  teeth;  except 
for  an  exceedingly  genial  and  even  gentle  expression 
in  the  deep-set  twinkling  brown  eyes  with  their 
strong  black  brows  and  short  thick  lashes. 

She  was  as  different  as  possible  from  Mrs.  Brown, 
whom,  however,  she  had  sincerely  loved  for  fifty 
years,  or  since  they  were  first  old  enough  to  play 
together  with  their  beloved  dolls.  The  motherly 
instinct  so  strongly  exhibited  in  the  child  of  three 
or  four,  and  so  early  called  into  play  for  real  babies, 
had  been  bitterly  thwarted  later  on  when,  one  after 
another,  she  had  seen  her  children  fade  away  from 
her  before  reaching  manhood  or  womanhood.  That 
she,  who,  except  for  the  aforesaid  gout,  had  scarcely 
known  an  illness  in  her  life,  should  have  brought  into 
the  world  only  delicate  children  whom  all  her  devoted 
care  could  not  avail  to  make  robust,  while  Jane  Brown, 
who,  in  spite  of  a  good  physique,  was  continually 
ailing,  should  have  been  blessed  with  two  children, 
"  kerngesund,"  as  our  German  cousins  so  happily 
express  it,  was  a  great  mystery  to  her;  for  she  was 


116  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

a  firm  believer  in  heredity  and  very  proud  of  her 
genealogy. 

"I  am  sure  the  stork  made  a  mistake  in  the  number 
when  he  brought  you  John!"  she  had  once  said  to 
Mrs.  Brown,  when  John  was  causing  his  mother  posi- 
tive dismay  by  his  extraordinary  length  and  strength 
and  awkwardness,  and  when  his  ugly  features  were 
at  their  most  prominent.  "I  was  always  sure  he  was 
meant  for  me  and  was  left  at  the  wrong  door," — for 
they  had  been  near  neighbors  for  many  years  of  their 
young  married  life. 

Mrs.  Brown  had  smiled,  though  her  sense  of  humor 
was  never  of  the  keenest.  "I'm  afraid  he's  going 
to  be  bigger  than  his  father,"  she  had  said,  anxiously. 

If  the  stork  had  been  more  accurate,  it  is  to  be 
doubted  whether  Mrs.  Wharton's  heart,  which  is  a 
big  one,  could  have  been  capable  of  any  stronger 
sentiment  for  John  Wharton  than  it  had  always  held 
for  John  Brown.  George  Raymond  had  been  quite 
within  bounds  when  he  had  said  that  she  would  break 
a  whole  string  of  engagements  to  do  John  a  good 
turn.  What  is  more,  unselfish,  thoughtful  John  was 
always  ready  to  accept  a  sacrifice  from  this  good 
friend  with  whom  he  joyfully  turned  the  tables. 
He  counted  on  her  confidently  now,  and  was  not  to 
be  disappointed.  As  she  moved  along  to  another 
flower-border,  regardless  of  the  gathering  evening 
dew  and  her  trailing  skirts,  she  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  a  quick  step  on  the  brick  path  and  moved 
around  to  the  front  of  the  house  to  meet  a  messenger 
from  the  station  bearing  one  of  those  yellow  envelopes 
that  have  caused  so  many  heart  flutterings.  Mrs. 


A  STORK  CAN  MAKE  A  MISTAKE     117 

Wharton's  heart  did  not  flutter  easily,  but  she  was 
conscious  of  a  certain  anxiety  as  she  carried  the  tele- 
gram in  to  the  light,  bidding  the  messenger  wait. 

The  student-lamp  on  the  round  table  in  the  sitting- 
room  had  just  been  lighted.  She  put  on  her  glasses 
and  spread  the  paper  under  it.  In  a  moment  her 
face  was  transformed  by  a  brighter  glow  than  the 
lam'p  had  ever  caused.  "Speak  of  angels,"  she  said 
excitedly,  going  with  her  quick,  heavy  step  to  a 
desk  near  by  and  drawing  a  telegraph  blank  from  a 
pigeon-hole.  It  was  a  short  but  exceedingly  cordial 
message  that  she  gave  the  waiting  boy;  then  she 
crossed  the  hall  to  the  dining-room  and  opened  the 
door  of  the  big  inner  kitchen. 

"Sarah!"  she  called,  "are  there  any  more  of  those 
late  pie-cherries?"  And  there  followed  one  of  those 
weighty  councils  typical  of  old-fashioned  Quaker 
households  where  good  cheer  is  a  never-failing  accom- 
paniment to  hospitality. 

******* 

She  was  on  the  platform  next  day  when  the  train 
pulled  up  to  the  little  country  station,  and  the  flush 
on  her  cheeks  was  not  entirely  caused  by  the  ardent 
rays  of  the  noon-day  sun.  . 

"Well,  well,  to  think  of  your  coming  out  in  this 
broiling  heat  to  meet  us!"  John  said,  kissing  her 
with  a  beaming  face.  "Mary" — he  turned  to  the 
girl  who,  with  wide,  grave,  eyes,  was  "taking  Mrs. 
Wharton  in"  with  all  her  might — "you  two  hardly 
need  an  introduction." 

The  smile  that  stole  over  Mary's  face  was  not 
in  the  least  like  the  usual  one  that  courtesy  dictates 


118  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

on  such  occasions.  It  was  the  spontaneous  yielding 
to  the  impression  that  Mrs.  Wharton's  smile  of  wel- 
come made  upon  her,  and  Mrs.  Wharton  read  it 
correctly,  and  much  beside,  of  which  it  was  a  symbol. 
She  took  the  girl's  hand  in  both  her  misshappen 
ones,  and  then  suddenly  stooped  and  kissed  her 
warmly.  "I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  dear,"  was  all 
she  said  aloud ;  but  it  was  with  difficulty  she  restrained 
herself  from  giving  way  to  her  habit  and  making  audi- 
ble the  rest  of  her  thought. 

They  were  soon  seated  in  the  roomy  carriage  which 
stood  waiting  a  little  way  off  under  a  tree — Mrs. 
Wharton  was  more  merciful  to  her  beasts  than  to 
herself — and  then,  as  John  opened  conversation 
with  his  old  friend  Sam  on  the  front  seat,  she  turned 
again  and  let  her  eyes  rest  on  the  flushed  face  beside 
her.  Mary  had,  at  John's  request,  put  on  one  of 
the  simple  white  dresses,  but  the  blue  ribbons  were 
replaced  by  black  velvet  and  the  gold  beads  by  a 
curious  dull  gold  locket  on  a  velvet  band.  The 
buckle  that  clasped  the  girdle  was  of  heavy  Roman 
gold,  and  both  ornaments,  which  were  too  old  for 
a  child,  gave  her  a  more  mature  young-womanly 
air  than  usual.  The  round  hat,  which  John  had 
lately  bought  her,  because,  as  he  explained  with 
some  diffidence,  it  looked  so  like  her  he  couldn't 
help  it,  had  surprised  though  it  had  not  balked  him 
by  its  price,  for  its  simple  white  straw  was  decorated 
only  with  a  black  velvet  bow  and  two  clusters  of 
opening  moss-rose-buds,  so  natural  that  one  felt 
sure  they  must  smell.  He  had  seen  his  taste  endorsed 
by  so  many  pairs  of  eyes  on  that  morning's  trip  that 


A  STORK  CAN  MAKE  A  MISTAKE     119 

he  had  half  wished  he  had  added  a  veil  to  its  trim- 
mings. 

"Mary,  I've  wanted  all  these  weeks  to  see  you, 
but  I've  been  away  for  a  month  and  I  should  have 
hesitated  about  intruding  on  you  anyhow."  Mrs. 
Wharton  took  one  of  the  white-cotton-gloved  hands 
in  hers  and  pressed  it  hard.  Expressions  of  sym- 
pathy did  not  come  readily  with  her,  but  Mary  under- 
stood. John  was  not  surprised  when  he  turned  around 
a  few  minutes  later  to  see  the  white  glove  in  custody 
and  an  expression  on  both  faces  that  betokened  the 
plighting  of  friendship's  troth. 

"I  knew  they  would  soon  hit  it  off,"  he  said  to 
himself,  while  his  eyes  met  Mrs.  Wharton's  with 
grateful  ardor  and  a  mute  appeal. 

Her  answering  look  promised:  "To  the  bitter 
end!"  and  some  touch  of  solicitude  in  it  foreboded 
the  possible  "bitter." 

They  rumbled  over  the  arched  stone  bridge  that 
crossed  a  wide,  quiet  stream,  passed  a  screen  of  woods, 
and  turned  into  the  shady  driveway  that  approached 
the  old  house.  Its  field-stone  walls,  so  characteristic 
of  Pennsylvania  country  houses,  had  been  plastered 
and  whitewashed  on  both  gable  ends,  when  or  why 
Mrs.  Wharton  herself  had  no  idea,  but  they  formed 
a  very  attractive  background  for  the  ivy  and  rose- 
bushes trained  upon  them. 

The  hall  door  stood  hospitably  open,  and  the  eye, 
piercing  the  shady  length  of  the  cool  entry,  was  car- 
ried on  through  the  opposite  doorway  to  the  orchard 
beyond. 

"What  a  dear  old   house!"  was   Mary's  heartfelt 


120  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

exclamation  as  she  sprang  out,  hardly  touching  John's 
offered  hand,  and  stood  looking  delightedly  about 
her. 

"I  call  this  my  second  home,"  John  said,  pleased 
with  her  pleasure.  "I  have  had  the  happiest  times 
of  my  life  in  this  old  place,  and  your  father  used  to 
come  here  too  when  he  was  a  boy." 

"I  hope  you  will  get  to  feel  it  like  home  and  let 
John  bring  you  here  often,"  Mrs.  Wharton  said  heart- 
ily as  she  took  her  guest  upstairs. 

The  curious  old  furniture  came  in  for  a  fresh  burst 
of  Mary's  enthusiasm.  And  she  ran  her  hand  caress- 
ingly over  the  smooth  mahogany  of  the  big  chairs 
and  gazed  in  wonderment  at  the  gigantic  four-poster, 
which  Mrs.  Wharton  said  was  the  only  thing  not 
inherited  from  generations  long  past.  "That  is 
the  one  piece  I  ever  bought,  and  it  didn't  come  from 
a  shop.  I  bought  it  in  New  Orleans  from  an  old 
Creole  lady,  because  it  was  so  enormous.  I  was 
determined  to  have  one  bed  in  this  house  big  enough 
for  John  to  luxuriate  in,  for  he  must  have  a  hard  time 
most  places  he  goes.  He  was  only  sixteen  when  I 
got  it,  but  as  tall  as  he  is  now.  It  is  a  real  inconve- 
nience to  be  bigger  than  other  people  and  have  to 
always  try  to  fit  into  ordinary  niches  and  sit  on 
ordinary,  flimsy  chairs.  I  happen  to  have  inherited 
some  chairs  big  enough  even  for  John." 

"But  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  have  him  like  other 
people,  would  you?  I  love  his  bigness  so.  He 
seems  so  big  inside,  he  would  burst  a  little  body!" 

The  big  body  in  question  was  leaning  against  a 
pillar  on  the  shady  back  piazza,  his  eyes  on  the  rich 


A  STORK  CAN  MAKE  A  MISTAKE     121 

green  of  the  orchard,  which  looked  like  spring  again 
since  the  harvesting  of  its  first  hay  crop.  It  is  doubt- 
ful whether  it  occupied  all  his  thoughts,  however, 
for  his  ear  heard  the  steps  on  the  stair,  and  his  expect- 
ant eyes  were  on  the  door  as  the  two  came  out  to 
him. 

Mary's  right  hand  slipped  at  once  into  his  left 
one  and  she  said  in  an  undertone,  "Ask  her  now, 
John." 

Mrs.  Wharton  did  not  catch  her  words,  but  she 
saw  the  subtle  reflection  of  her  touch  in  John's  face 
independently  of  the  smile  with  which  he  looked 
down  at  her.  Indeed,  it  struck  the  observer  that 
the  smile  came  in  spite  of  the  other  deeper  feeling. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked,  retaining  her 
hand  as  she  was  about  to  move  quickly  past  him. 

"Just  to  look  around,"  she  said,  with  a  little,  sly 
smile. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  back  me  up?"  he  asked;  but 
suddenly  bethinking  himself,  he  loosed  the  hand, 
and  she  went  lightly  around  the  corner  to  the  front 
of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Wharton's  rather  startled  expression  made 
him  laugh  outright,  and  then  he  soberly  told  his 
little  story  and  made  his  request. 

"I  could  not  think  of  asking  this  sort  of  sacrifice 
of  anyone  but  you — or  George — "  he  said  in  con- 
clusion; "not  even  of  mother.  She  would  love  to 
do  anything  for  me,  I  know,  but —  Mrs.  Wharton 
understood  the  "but." 

"Poor  Jane!"  she  said  aloud.  Then,  seeing  John's 
face  sadden,  she  added  quickly:  "You  are  right  in 


122  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

regard  to  this.  It  would  not  do;  only  I  feel  as  though 
in  accepting  your  invitation,  I  was  depriving  her  of 
something  precious  that  she  ought  to  have." 

"Mother  gave  me  up  to  Dick  this  summer,"  John 
said,  in  a  low,  pained  voice;  "and  I  promised  him 
my  time  should  be  Mary's.  I  have  no  choice  or  I 
might  feel  it  my  duty.  It  is  not  unnatural  that 
mother  should  think — Mrs.  Wharton,  I  am  sure  she 
would  not  understand  Mary,  and  I  am  afraid  she 
will  not  like  her."  He  tried  in  vain  to  steady  his 
voice  and  the  trembling  of  his  lips.  Mrs.  Wharton 
met  his  wistful,  direct  gaze  with  one  equally  direct. 
John  felt  he  was  answered. 

They  soon  fell  into  the  discussion  of  such  prosaic 
things  as  bed-  and  table-linen,  and  other  domestic 
details  with  which  Mrs.  Wharton  insisted  on  burden- 
ing herself. 

"I  think  John  Patterson  and  Hannah  can  attend 
to  all  our  needs,"  John  said;  "but  there  is  Mary — 
I  will  call  her." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"THE  DEEPEST  DEPTHS  OF  A  FULL  HEART" 

OH,  how  lovely!"  The  direct  object  of  Mrs. 
Wharton's  delighted  exclamation  was  a  low 
stone-ware  butter-crock  filled  with  freshly 
gathered  wild  roses,  to  which  Mary  was  adding  the 
finishing  touches  on  the  breakfast  table;  but  follow- 
ing the  direction  of  John's  eyes,  one  would  have 
applied  the  adjective  to  another  noun.  Perhaps 
Mrs.  Wharton  intended  to  include  both.  It  was 
the  first  Sunday  of  their  Beach  Haven  stay,  and 
the  first  really  "settled"  day;  for  Saturday  had 
been  full  of  commotion  and  arrangement.  Mary 
had  been  everywhere,  up  stairs  and  down,  as  pleased 
as  a  child  with  a  play  house,  and  every  face  reflected 
her  interest  and  pleasure.  One  main  object  of  her 
search  had  been  "nice"  receptacles  for  flowers,  for 
she  had  scornfully  spurned  the  slim,  toppling  or  over- 
decorated  ornaments  scatteringly  disposed  about  the 
bare  rooms. 

Opening  the  kitchen  door  to  discover  her  where- 
abouts, John  had  met  her  returning  from  a  rear 
shed  with  a  glowing  face  and  news  of  treasure  trove 
in  the  way  of  more  or  less  dilapidated  stone  and 
earthenware  vessels.  She  carried  a  specimen  under 
each  arm.  That  they  had  been  discarded  for  lack 

(123) 


124  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

of  lids,  handles  or  noses  was  no  detriment,  in  her 
eyes,  and  indeed  lids  must  have  been  dispensed  with 
in  any  case. 

John  and  Hannah  felt  as  though  the  whole  arrange- 
ment were  a  sort  of  continuous  picnic,  at  which  they 
were  all  drinking  from  the  fountain  of  youth.  Al- 
ready they  were  Mary's  intimate  friends  and  on 
terms  of  respectful  mutual  understanding  with 
Catharine,  who  at  once  joined  forces  with  them  as  a 
matter  of  course,  quietly  but  conclusively  negativing 
any  other  plan. 

"  Why,  you  must  have  been  up  since  dawn," 
Mrs.  Wharton  continued,  looking  around  at  two  jugs 
of  daisies,  a  little  brown  pitcher  of  sea-pinks  and 
grasses  and  a  bunch  of  glorified  clover  blossoms  in 
a  tumbler.  The  unkempt  yard  of  the  cottage,  with 
its  hillocky,  sandy  soil,  furnished  no  more  aristo- 
cratic blossoms,  unless  the  morning-glories  on  the 
porch  might  lay  claim  to  that  distinction;  and  the 
handful  of  pinks  had  been  gathered  by  the  grocer's 
boy  and  dumbly  offered  at  Mary's  shrine. 

John's  toilet  had  been  hindered  by  his  apprecia- 
tion of  the  picture  that  had  appeared  and  disappeared 
within  his  range  of  vision,  and  the  prospect  of  coming 
down  morning  after  morning  to  find  her  there  beside 
him  at  breakfast,  of  having  her  beside  him  all  day 
long,  on  the  beach,  in  the  surf,  along  the  few  roads 
that  all  merged  into  that  long  causeway  out  to  the 
boat- wharves,  shopping  for  household  things  at  the 
store  as  she  had  done  yesterday  morning,  or  begging 
her  turn  at  steering  the  boat  under  Captain  Smith's 
guidance,  as  in  the  afternoon,  filled  him  with  a  flood 


"DEPTHS  OF  A  FULL  HEART"       125 

of  ungovernable  joy.  He  was  to  crowd  a  week  of 
ordinary  happiness  into  each  day. 

Dick  was  ever  present  to  him  in  Mary,  but  with 
little  pain.  The  loss  which  would  have  so  heavily 
clouded  his  summer  was  merged  in  the  great  gain 
that  loss  had  brought,  and  in  the  feeling  that  Dick 
himself  had  foreseen  this  and  arranged  for  it  as  far 
as  he  could. 

"I  know  nearly  everything  that  ever  happened 
to  you  when  you  were  a  little  boy,"  Mary  had  said 
to  him  lately.  "Father  told  me  everything  about 
you.  I  suppose  he  knew  I  was  going  to  belong  to 
you  some  day."  She  could  not  guess  what  a  galvanic 
thrill  had  shot  through  John  at  the  matter-of-fact 
statement. 

"It  didn't  take  me  very  long  to  pick  these,"  was 
her  pleased  answer  to  Mrs.  Wharton's  words.  "  Cath- 
arine says  the  only  way  to  keep  wild  roses  from  fading 
right  away  is  to  pick  them  before  the  sun  has  been 
on  them  long,  and  get  them  into  water  as  quickly 
as  you  can." 

"John,  don't  you  want  to  go  to  church?"  she 
asked  gravely,  when  they  were  seated  at  breakfast. 
"Father  said  you  always  went,  and  I  know  you  have 
been  staying  away  all  summer  because  of  me." 

John  hesitated.  He  had  always  known  that  he 
and  Dick  differed  in  their  religious  beliefs,  but  it 
had  made  no  difference  to  their  close  friendship. 
Each  had  thoroughly  respected  the  other's  point  of 
view  without  definitely  knowing  it,  and  Dick  made 
it  a  point  of  honor  never  to  try  to  influence  his  more 
orthodox  friend.  But  he  had  confessed  to  having 


126  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

made  Mary  "a  little  theologian,"  and  John  dreaded 
any  word  or  act  that  might  open  the  least  gulf  between 
himself  and  her.  Somehow  differing  with  her  was 
another  thing  than  differing  with  Dick.  She  was  so 
young  and  so  positive.  She  would  not  understand 
any  point  of  view  but  her  father's,  and  would  perhaps 
feel  him  narrow  and  find  his  church-going  Sunday 
irksome.  He  meant  to  be  true  to  himself  and  he 
knew  that  he  was  a  coward;  but  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  hurry  matters.  He  looked  up  at  her  now 
with  heightened  color  and  a  rather  formal  gravity. 

"I  do  generally  go  to  church,  but  I  am  not  de- 
pendent on  it,  and  I  should  rather  do  what  you  would 
like.  Of  course,  you  have  not  been  used  to  going 
anywhere?" 

"But  I  want  to,"  Mary  said,  her  eyes  filling  at 
the  memory  of  those  other  Sundays.  "I  should 
like  to  go  with  you" — a  faint  accent  on  the  "you." 
"Are  you  an  Episcopalian  too,  Mrs.  Wharton?"  she 
asked. 

"No,  dear,  I  am  a  Friend." 

"Oh,  like  Grandma!"  The  pleased  inflection  of 
Mary's  voice  made  both  her  listeners  smile. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Wharton  said,  "only  I  belong  to  the 
other  branch:  what  they  call  the  'Hicksite'  Friends. 
Do  you  know  the  difference?" 

"Yes,  Father  told  me  about  why  the  break  came, 
and  he  said  if  he  had  been  there  he  would  have  sided 
with  the  'Hicksites.'  He  wouldn't  join  them  later 
because  he  said  it  would  hurt  Grandma's  feelings, 
and  anyhow,  a  Friend  can  believe  anything  he  likes, 
especially  if  he  doesn't  say  anything  in  the  meetings." 


"DEPTHS   OF  A  FULL  HEART"        127 

Mrs.  Wharton  said  she  thought  she  should  spend 
the  morning  reading  and  writing  in  her  own  room, 
and  from  its  window  she  watched  the  setting  forth 
of  the  other  two  to  the  little  Episcopal  Church. 
She  saw  John  take  the  parasol  and  raise  it.  His 
smile  did  her  heart  good.  "I  have  never  seen  his 
face  look  like  it  does  now,"  she  said  to  herself,  with 
a  little  sigh,  and  then  turned  to  her  desk  and  "Jane 
Brown's"  unanswered  letter.  She  found  it  a  harder 
matter  to  begin  than  she  had  thought,  judging  by 
the  length  of  time  her  eyes  rested  immovably  on  the 
fresh  sheet  before  her  and  the  number  of  times  her 
pen  was  dipped  in  the  ink,  only  to  dry  unused. 

"You  are  more  particular  to-day,"  John  said, 
teasingly,  to  Mary,  referring  to  a  reckless  exposure 
of  her  complexion  the  afternoon  before,  over  which 
he  had  felt  obliged  to  remonstrate. 

"I  am  particular  about  my  roses,"  she  said  smil- 
ingly. His  eyes  wandered  from  hat  to  cheeks,  and 
plainly  asked  the  question  he  checked  on  his  lips. 

Mary  laughed.  "I  mean  your  roses,"  she  added, 
a  deeper  shade  in  her  own  accompanying  the  frank 
words. 

The  church  was  mainly  supported  by  the  contri- 
butions of  summer  visitors;  and  a  different  clergy- 
man officiated  each  Sunday.  It  was  a  very  simple 
service  and  the  whole  congregation  joined  heartily 
in  responses  and  hymns.  Mary  knew  few  hymns 
and  had  not  much  voice;  but  her  soul  seemed  lifted 
up  on  wings  and  her  eyes  filled  again  and  again. 
She  put  her  handkerchief  to  them  as  unobtrusively 
as  possible;  yet  she  knew  John  noticed,  and  felt 


128  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

his  sympathy  in  every  decorous  conventional  little 
service  he  tendered  her.  She  knew  the  words  of 
most  of  the  liturgy,  though  he  had  to  find  the  places 
for  her,  and  she  preferred  singing  with  him  from  his 
hymn-book,  or  rather  looking  on  with  him  while  he 
sang.  John  always  disclaimed  the  possession  of  a 
singing  voice,  though  his  speaking  voice  had  great 
richness  and  variety  in  spite  of  the  unmistakable 
Philadelphia  accent.  His  singing  of  those  hymns 
that  he  liked  was  the  unaffected  outpouring  of  his 
heart,  and  Mary's  was  not  the  only  heart  that  was 
stirred  in  response.  Once  she  raised  her  eyes  from 
the  book  to  his  face,  as  a  child  looks  up  with  the 
simple  need  of  showing  affection  and  getting  sym- 
pathy. The  look  she  encountered  gave  her  a  new 
sense  of  the  sweetness  of  life — of  a  world  full  of  noble 
endeavor,  of  infinite  possibilities,  of  unbounded  love. 

The  words  of  the  old  collect  had  never  fallen  on 
more  fertile  soil:  "Almighty  God,  unto  whom  all 
hearts  are  open,  all  desires  known,  and  from  whom 
no  secrets  are  hid,  cleanse  the  thoughts  of  our  hearts 
by  the  inspiration  of  thy  Holy  Spirit,  that  we  may 
perfectly  love  thee,  and  worthily  magnify  thy  holy 
name,  through  Christ,  our  Lord." 

Her  low  "Amen"  came  from  the  deepest  depths 
of  a  full  heart. 

Dick  Farnham  had  early  recognized  that  he  was 
master  of  a  little  craft  full-rigged  for  every  wind  of 
impulse  and  emotion  on  the  ocean  of  life.  Should 
he  try  to  reef  her  or  transform  her  to  some  safer, 
more  plodding  form  of  vessel?  No!  All  the  sports- 
man in  him  loved  his  racing  yacht.  Thank  God, 


"DEPTHS  OF  A  FULL  HEART"       129 

she  was  not  meant  for  shallow  water!  He  would 
deepen  her  keel,  ballast  her  as  heavily  as  might  be 
and  trust  her  to  the  open  sea.  He  had  no  need  to 
strengthen  her  love  to  God;  she  caught  fire  in  an 
instant,  and  he  recognized  the  stuff  of  which  mystics 
and  martyrs  are  made.  He  turned  his  whole  training 
to  her  reason  and  judgment.  They  studied  the  Bible 
together  in  the  light  of  all  the  sane  and  reverent 
criticism  he  could  find  suited  to  her  years,  and  he 
led  her  to  weigh  the  true  and  false  at  every  turn, 
as  they  discussed  books  and  sermons.  She  had  seldom 
been  in  a  church  and  was  unused  to  music.  Her 
father  had  never  even  been  able  to  "turn  a  tune." 

John  knew  this  and  thought  he  read  what  was 
taking  place  in  her.  She  occupied  his  thoughts  to 
the  exclusion  of  the  really  excellent  sermon;  or, 
rather,  he  heard  it  only  through  her  ears,  and  he  saw 
that  they  missed  no  word.  Her  eyes  scarcely  left  the 
preacher's  face,  and  her  clasped  hands,  from  which 
she  had  drawn  the  gloves,  never  stirred  on  her  lap. 
Over  and  over  John  chid  himself,  and  tried  to  follow 
her  example,  and  over  and  over  his  truant  thoughts 
came  back.  Had  Dick  foreseen  how  he  too  would 
thrill  with  the  rapture  of  seeing  those  white  sails 
spread? 

The  church  was  crowded,  and  they  had  slipped 
into  seats  at  the  very  back,  but  even  there  it  seemed 
to  John  that  all  eyes  would  turn  to  watch  the  pic- 
ture at  his  side.  He  recognized  the  owners  of  some 
of  them,  and  as  the  congregation  moved  out  after 
those  last  solemn,  beautiful  words  of  benediction,  he 
turned  to  Mary  and  asked  her  to  wait  for  him  in  the 

o 


130  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

scanty  scrap  of  shade.  "I  must  speak  to  some  of 
these  people,"  he  said  ruefully. 

When  he  joined  her  the  flushed,  earnest  face  bore 
witness  to  the  depth  of  the  impression  she  had 
received.  He  only  glanced  at  it  as  he  took  her 
prayer-book — Dick's  old  book — and  put  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"John,"  she  said  in  a  very  low  voice,  as  the  whole 
congregation  moved  toward  the  beach  in  procession, 
"may  I  always  go  to  church  with  you?"  Always! 
The  word  smote  bitter  sweet  on  John's  ear.  A 
quick  vision  of  his  mother,  of  Miss  Newlin,  of  a  host 
of  shadowy  figures  out  of  the  unknown  future  passed 
before  his  mental  eye.  But  he  turned  to  her  with  a 
smile  and  said  simply,  "I  knew  that  you  were  glad 
to  be  there." 

"Oh!"  He  saw  her  lips  tremble  as  she  turned 
her  face  away;  then  her  eyes  were  raised  dark  and 
deep  as  those  of  a  young  seer,  "I  never  felt  so  near 
to  God  before!" 

He  answered  her  gaze  expressively  enough,  but 
found  no  words  for  the  wave  of  gratified  feeling  that 
filled  him.  They  were  .nearing  the  crowded  beach, 
where  many  bathers  were  already  in  the  surf,  and 
some  of  the  church-goers  were  hastening  to  join 
them.  It  was  a  dazzlingly  gay  scene,  and  both  felt 
it  jar  on  their  earnest  mood.  Without  a  word  they 
turned  away  and  walked  toward  the  cottage,  in  its 
retired  setting,  through  the  scattered  groups  under 
the  beach  umbrellas,  the  playing  children  and  pic- 
turesque bathers  apparently  more  intent  on  basking 
in  the  sun's  rays  than  dipping  in  the  ocean's  waves. 


"DEPTHS   OF  A  FULL  HEART"       131 

By  common  consent  they  halted  some  distance 
beyond  and  seated  themselves  on  a  sand-hillock  at 
the  top  of  the  steep  beach. 

"John/'  Mary  said  earnestly,  "I  wish  I  could 
belong  to  your  church  and  believe  just  what  you 
believe,  for  I  do  love  you  so  dearly!"  The  warm 
color  and  starting  tears  bore  witness  to  the  sincerity 
of  the  impulsive  words. 

John's  face  quivered  and  his  eyes  fell.  "Couldn't 
you?"  he  said  without  trying  to  answer  the  rest  of 
her  confession. 

"Can  anybody  join  the  Episcopal  Church  without 
being  baptized?" 

"No,  but  you  wouldn't  hesitate  about  that  if  it 
were  for  somebody  you  were  fond  of,  and  surely 
you  would  be  willing  to  do  it  for  Christ." 

"Oh,  no,  it  isn't  that!  Of  course,  I  would  be 
willing  to  do  almost  anything,  only  I  don't  really 
believe  Christ  wants  me  to  do  that;  but  I  would 
have  to  say  I  believed  something,  you  see." 

At  another  time  John  might  have  smiled  at  the 
childlike  words,  but  not  now.  "You  didn't  repeat 
the  Creed  this  morning,"  he  said.  "Was  it  because 
you  don't  understand  it,  or" — he  hesitated — "I  am 
afraid  I  would  be  a  poor  help,  as  I  have  my  own 
way  of  interpreting  things,  and  it  isn't  a  very  logical 
way,  perhaps;  but  I  would  be  willing  to  try." 

"Oh,  I  think  I  understand  it,  "  Mary  said  sadly, 
"but  I  don't  believe  it.  Perhaps  I  might  believe  it 
your  way."  The  gaze  she  turned  upon  him  was  not 
a  child's  gaze.  They  were  such  eyes  as  that  other 
Mary  in  Bethany  of  old  might  have  lifted  to  the 


132  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

Master  at  whose  feet  she  sat.  A  passer-by  wondered 
what  could  cause  such  distraction  in  the  oddly  as- 
sorted pair.  Could  that  beautiful  girl  possibly  be 
his  daughter?  And  what  had  happened  to  them? 
John  had  a  sudden  consciousness  of  the  immense 
influence  it  was  in  his  power  to  exert  over  this  eager, 
impressionable  nature  whose  love  for  him  was  so 
deeply  tinged  with  hero-worship,  and  yet  he  intui- 
tively knew  that  in  the  last  resort,  when  reason  had 
overtopped  emotion,  her  influence  would  be  the 
stronger. 

"I  should  like  to  try  to  make  you  believe  as  I 
do,"  he  said  rather  dully,  "but  truth  is  a  very  big 
thing,  and  we  none  of  us  grasp  it  all  and  few  of  us 
get  just  the  same  piece.  You  believe  that  I  am  as 
anxious  as  your  father  or  you  to  live  by  what  I  hold 
to  be  true,  don't  you?"  Her  eyes  were  reassuring. 

"I  have  been  very  much  afraid  of  touching  on  these 
things  with  you,  because  I — I  hate  to  differ  with 
you."  He  tried  to  smile  frankly  in  her  face.  "I 
wouldn't  want  to  make  you  believe  anything  that 
your  father  didn't  believe,  and  I  couldn't  make  you 
if  I  would;  you  are  too  exactly  like  him.  You  will 
always  do  your  own  judging." 

"Well,  won't  you  go  over  the  prayer-book,  espe- 
cially the  Creed,  with  me  some  time,  and  tell  me  how 
you  think?" 

John's  none  too  eager  answer  was  prevented  by  a 
dripping  urchin  who  seemed  to  be  a  connoisseur  of 
pictures  and  to  recognize  a  masterpiece  under  the 
green  parasol.  His  unembarrassed  gaze  put  a  merry 
end  to  their  talk. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 

JOHN'S  catechumenical  lecture  did  not  take  place 
at  once,  for  there  seemed  no  haste  on  the  part 
of  either  to  broach  a  topic  that  might  be  fraught 
with  difference  of  opinion,  and  chance  decreed  that 
it  was  to  be  Mary  who  should  give  the  first  teaching. 
She  was  very  fond  of  reading,  and  read  aloud  delight- 
fully, without  self-consciousness  or  elocutionary  effect 
and  with  a  very  intelligent  appreciation  of  her  subject 
and  a  keen  sense  of  humor.  Both  Mrs.  Wharton  and 
John  were  astonished  at  the  extent  of  her  general 
information.  John  always  took  his  turn  at  connected 
reading,  and  most  of  their  evenings  were  passed  in 
this  way,  while  Mrs.  Wharton  plied  her  indefatigable 
knitting  or  crochet  needles. 

Once  they  happened  upon  a  Biblical  allusion  that 
brought  up  the  question  of  Higher  Criticism,  and 
Mary  gave  a  very  simple  and  clear  opinion,  gained 
from  her  respectable  knowledge  of  this  subject.  It 
ended  in  her  bringing  out  her  well-worn  Bible  and 
giving  a  little  lecture  to  a  very  indulgent  audience. 

John  knew  little  of  Biblical  criticism  and  had  been 
somewhat  prejudiced  against  it  by  what  he  considered 
unwarranted  assumptions  on  the  part  of  German 
critics  whom  he  had  heard  quoted.  He  had  been  busy 

(133) 


134  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

with  other  matters  and  disinclined  to  critical  study 
for  its  own  sake,  while  any  Irreverent  handling  of  the 
sacred  and  time-honored  text  was  repugnant  to  his 
feelings.  That  Mary's  training  had  been  toward 
reverence  he  had  no  doubt,  and  his  mind  and  heart 
were  open  to  all  she  would  tell  him.  Neither  he  nor 
Mrs.  Wharton  had  so  good  a  knowledge  of  the  Bible 
as  their  youthful  teacher,  and  Mrs.  Wharton  was 
ignorant  of  the  rudiments  of  criticism  and  hardly 
knew  the  meaning  of  the  word  exegesis.  She  had 
been  no  Bible  student  at  any  time  and  her  devotional 
reading  was  confined  to  the  Psalms  and  Gospels,  with 
short  excursions  into  the  Prophets  and  Epistles. 
When  any  passage  or  chapter  puzzled  her,  she  passed 
it  by  and  went  on  to  what  was  plain,  troubling  herself 
little  about  Verbal  Inspiration,  difference  of  authen- 
ticity or  chronology  or  any  other  of  the  burning 
questions  of  the  schools.  Her  simple  faith  in  the 
goodness  of  God,  which  repeated  personal  bereave- 
ments had  not  succeeded  in  shaking,  was  sufficient 
for  her.  She  read  the  acts  and  teachings  of  Jesus 
without  any  question  as  to  sequence  or  context,  and 
accepted  literally  his  injunction,  "Let  not  your  heart 
be  troubled."  She  was  a  woman  of  very  moderate 
education  or  culture,  but  her  unassailable  position 
in  the  solider  stratum  of  Philadelphia  society,  her 
intercourse  with  many  people  of  high  culture  and 
attainment  and  her  much  traveling  among  the  older 
civilizations  of  Europe  gave  her  an  assured  manner  of 
handling  many  subjects  on  which  she  frankly  con- 
fessed her  ignorance ;  and  her  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  of  people  stood  her  in  as  good  stead  with  society 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER  135 

at  large  as  a  much  more  considerable  learning.  The 
terms  that  came  so  fluently  from  Mary's  lips  were 
" Greek"  to  her,  and  it  seemed  quite  unimportant 
whether  the  whole  Pentateuch  had  come  down  the 
centuries  in  the  undisputed  handwriting  of  Moses 
himself  or  had  been  a  composite  mass  of  material  of 
various  epochs.  She  saw  it  was  otherwise  with  John 
and  that  his  interest  was  real.  She  thought  it  likely 
that  he  would  not  have  undertaken  this  study  from 
pure  love  of  it;  but  pure  love  of  the  teacher  is  a  great 
stimulus  to  learning. 

Mrs.  Wharton  soon  dropped  out  of  all  active  share 
in  the  discussions;  for  they  developed  into  discussions, 
as  John  had  many  pertinent  questions  to  put  and 
doubts  to  raise,  but  she  was  generally  present.  She 
was  never  at  any  time  allowed  to  feel  herself  de  trop, 
and  indeed  she  never  was.  They  had  no  wish  for 
tete-a-tetes.  Mary  was  happy  so  long  as  she  was  with 
John,  but  had  generally  no  desire  to  be  with  him 
alone,  and  he  on  his  side  felt  the  presence  of  a 
sympathetic  friend  rather  a  safeguard  than  otherwise. 

Mrs.  Wharton  was  a  very  sympathetic  friend,  but 
after  three  or  four  weeks  of  observation  of  this  other 
friendship,  she  found  herself  growing  a  trifle  impatient 
and  dissatisfied  with  John.  It  was  unnatural  for  so 
mature  and  sober-minded  a  man  as  he  to  pass  one  day 
after  another  in  this  uninterrupted  absorption  in  any 
woman,  still  less  in  a  mere  child.  To  be  sure,  there 
was  neither  monotony  nor  lack  of  activity  in  their 
long  days  together.  John  taught  her  to  swim  and  to 
steer  a  sail-boat,  and  she  was  as  enthusiastic  a  pupil 
as  heart  could  desire.  His  great  height  and  strength 


136  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

enabled  him  to  take  her  out  beyond  the  surf,  which 
was  often  heavy  on  the  coast,  to  where  he  could  hold 
her  waistband  with  light  touch  and  let  her  practice 
her  strokes  under  his  critical  instruction.  Her  native 
fearlessness  and  entire  confidence  in  her  teacher  made 
her  a  most  apt  pupil.  She  would  float  on  her  back 
far  beyond  her  depth  without  a  question,  and  no 
rough  surf  or  cold  sea  seemed  sufficient  reason  for 
missing  a  bath.  This  summer  out  of  doors,  after 
her  long  years  of  confinement,  gave  her,  in  spite  of 
many  sad  thoughts,  a  sort  of  intoxication  bred  of 
sunshine  and  fresh  air;  and  her  constant  variety 
would  have  made  her  an  interesting  companion  to  a 
man  much  less  "absorbed"  in  her  than  John. 

Beach  Haven  is  one  of  the  many  unlovely  but 
beloved  bathing  resorts  that  speckle  the  long  line 
of  New  Jersey's  coast  from  Sandy  Hook  to  Cape  May. 
It  lies — and  it  lies  flat — on  one  of  those  narrow, 
treeless  strips  of  sand  which  form  a  natural  breakwater 
to  half  the  coast  length,  separated  from  the  mainland 
by  a  long  succession  of  watery  thoroughfares,  navi- 
gable for  sail-boats  of  the  "cat-boat"  type  at  high 
tide,  and  deepening  and  broadening  occasionally  into 
fine  bays.  It  is  on  one  of  these,  Little  Egg  Harbor, 
that  Beach  Haven  is  situated.  At  the  time  of  which 
I  write,  some  twenty  odd  years  ago,  the  old  boat  that 
had  plied  backward  and  forward  for  many  years  be- 
tween the  mainland  and  the  beach  had  been  supplanted 
by  the  railway,  which,  crossing  where  the  bay  narrows 
into  the  thoroughfare,  brought  its  trainloads  of  hot 
and  grimy  passengers  straight  into  the  little  town. 

The  bay  forms  a  perfect  sailing  ground  for  boats 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER  137 

of  light  draught;  and  a  centerboard  that  can  be  lifted 
at  will  makes  it  possible  to  skim  over  the  many  sandy 
flats  where  a  keel  would  stick  fast.  Mary's  pleasure 
in  this  bay  and  her  delight  in  being  allowed  to  steer 
gave  almost  as  much  enjoyment  to  the  elderly  captain 
as  to  John  himself.  Neither  of  them  cared  much  for 
fishing.  The  pulling  of  fish  out  of  the  water  for  mere 
sport  was  a  horror  to  Mary's  loving  nature  and  John 
agreed  with  her  as  to  the  cruelty,  only  reminding  her 
that  their  sensibility  was  not  so  keen  as  that  of 
warmer-blooded  animals. 

"But  they  jump  about  as  if  they  felt  awfully  and 
they  must  hate  to  die,"  she  remonstrated.  "I  would 
a  great  deal  rather  see  them  swimming  about  enjoying 
themselves." 

On  an  average  of  once  a  week  John  did  go  to  the 
city  for  a  day's  business,  and  on  the  eve  of  one  of  these 
absences  Mrs.  Wharton,  who  was  alone  with  him, 
suggested  his  taking  a  little  longer  vacation  and  pay- 
ing a  visit  to  George  at  Cape  May. 

"Mary  and  I  are  good  friends,  and  will  be  very 
happy  together,  even  without  Catharine,  and  it  will 
do  you  good  to  have  a  little  male  companionship  for 
a  change." 

In  spite  of  the  genial  tone  in  which  the  suggestion 
was  proffered,  John  easily  detected  the  note  of  dis- 
satisfaction. His  eyes  met  hers  with  a  steadiness 
that  was  disconcerting  as  he  answered  quietly:  "Mrs. 
Wharton,  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  and  perhaps 
you  are  right,  but  I  am  having  what  I  never  had  before 
and  never  shall  have  again  after  this  summer,  and  I 
would  not  give  up  one  unnecessary  hour  of  it." 


138  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

Mrs.  Wharton's  eyes  fell  and  her  heavy  nether  lip 
trembled  a  little.  There  was  silence  in  the  room  for 
a  long  minute;  then  she  said  in  a  very  different  tone: 
"Perhaps  you  can  never  have  just  this  again,  but  I 
hope  there  may  be  still  better  things  in  store  for  you." 

He  changed  color  violently  and  opened  his  lips  to 
answer,  when  Mary's  voice  was  heard  at  the  kitchen 
door.  She  had  been  sitting  with  Catharine,  who  was 
to  go  back  to  Fernwood  next  day,  and  as  she  came 
toward  them  her  face  was  grave  and  her  eyes  had  a 
look  of  having  been  hastily  dried.  As  John  rose,  she 
came  to  him  and  took  a  little  chair  near  by,  drawing 
it  still  closer  and  slipping  her  hand  into  his  as  he 
reseated  himself.  Not  a  word  was  said  for  a  long 
while.  Each  heart  was  occupied  with  its  own  feelings. 
Mrs.  Wharton's  eyes  were  lifted  from  the  little  sacque 
she  was  knitting  long  enough  to  add  to  her  memory 
gallery  a  picture  that  moved  her  strangely. 

"What  will  be  the  end  of  it?"  she  asked  herself, 
fearfully.  "Poor  Jane!  I  am  a  traitor  to  her,  I  am 
afraid.  'He  will  let  her  feel  she  has  a  claim  on  him,' " 
recalling  the  words  of  that  letter  of  Mrs.  Brown's. 
"A  claim!"  Was  a  claim  the  word  for  entire  posses- 
sion? Mary's  hand  went  into  his  as  though  it  belonged 
there;  or,  rather,  every  feeling  of  need  in  her  seemed 
to  turn  to  him  to  be  made  good  with  a  wordless 
security  that  was  absolute.  "She  will  take  all  she 
wants  from  him,  and  then  perhaps  want  something 
else  from  younger  men,"  she  thought,  with  some  bitter- 
ness. She  had  remarked  that  Mary  was  not  blind 
to  the  glances  of  the  gilded  youth  who  would  probably 
be  willing  to  supply  her  needs  if  appealed  to.  A 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER  139 

deep,  unconscious  sigh  escaped  her,  which  was  twin 
sister  to  thinking  aloud,  but  in  a  language  intelligible 
to  only  one  of  her  listeners.  His  handclasp  tightened 
and  he  took  no  heed  of  the  half-amused  glance  Mary 
shot  at  him  from  the  corner  of  her  eye.  His  own  were 
bent  on  the  ground. 

"If  I  were  a  sculptor  I  would  do  your  hand,  John," 
she  said  after  a  long  pause.  He  started  and  colored. 
His  grasp  relaxed  and  he  looked  in  rueful  astonishment 
at  her  reddened  fingers  and  mutely  asked  her  pardon. 

"Aren't  his  hands  beautiful,  Mrs.  Wharton?  They 
are  the  hands  of  a  really,  truly,  no-mistake  gentleman." 

"Why,  Mary!"  John  laughed  and  colored  like  a 
bashful,  gratified  school-boy. 

She  spread  his  hand  out  on  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
adjusting  his  passive  fingers  and  making  him  pose. 

"It  is  a  very  good-looking  hand,  Mary,"  Mrs. 
Wharton  assented  as  though  just  aroused  to  notice  of 
it,  "and  better  than  a  gentleman's,  because  it  looks  so 
much  stronger  than  most  gentlemen's." 

"Oh,  but  I  mean  a  real  gentleman  who's  strong  too," 
was  the  quick  rejoinder.  "Now!"  removing  her  own 
hands  to  survey  her  model,  her  head  a  little  on  one 
side,  "Look  at  that !  But  I  don't  like  statues  of  hands 
by  themselves." 

"And  the  rest  of  me  would  make  a  queer  statue," 
John  said,  laughing.  She  surveyed  him  with  a  critical, 
teasing  eye,  which  immediately  softened  and  grew 
bright  with  a  sudden  thought.  "Oh,  John,  won't 
you  go  to-morrow  and  have  your  picture  taken — the 
whole  of  you,  every  bit,  sitting  like  that?  A  big  one," 
making  the  proportions  with  her  hands,  "for  me  to 


140  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

take  to  school  with  me  when  I  go."  Her  eyes  suddenly 
darkened  dangerously  and  the  shadow  on  her  face 
was  reflected  on  John's,  though  he  smiled  bravely. 
He  did  not  answer  for  a  moment. 

"Please,  John!  Won't  you?  It  would  make  such 
a  difference!" 

Could  he  possibly  refuse  such  a  wish,  so  expressed, 
Mrs.  Wharton  wondered.  She  committed  the  fault, 
rare  with  her,  of  dropping  two  or  three  stitches  on  the 
sleeve  of  the  sacque  she  was  knitting,  to  which,  how- 
ever, she  seemed  to  give  the  most  absorbed  attention. 
The  interest  she  felt  in  the  little  drama  enacted  before 
her  became  intense  and  not  unmixed  with  embarrass- 
ment. Didn't  she  know,  and  didn't  John  know  that 
she  knew,  that  for  twenty  years  his  mother's  one 
valid  cause  of  dissatisfaction  with  him  had  been  his 
obstinate,  albeit  good-humored,  refusal  to  have  him- 
self photographed.  What  if  he  should  weaken  now! 
There  was  no  doubt  that  Mary  was  in  earnest  and  her 
allusion  to  the  time  of  their  separation  was  an  uncon- 
scious master-stroke.  Of  course,  she  knew  nothing 
of  his  previous  attitude  on  this  question. 

He  glanced  at  Mrs.  Wharton's  guilty  face,  and  his 
own  color  rose.  He  did  not  look  at  Mary,  while  he 
made  a  semi-comic  excuse  which  still  had  the  final 
sound  of  a  refusal  of  her  request.  Mrs.  Wharton  made 
sure  that  she  would  coax  him  further,  but  she  did  not. 
She  only  looked  at  him  in  mournful  surprise.  She 
saw  he  had  some  special  feeling  about  it  and  forbore 
annoying  him.  Could  he  be  too  vain !  They  were  all 
silent  for  a  time;  then  John  changed  the  subject  by 
asking  her  to  take  her  bath  next  day  down  the  beach, 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER  141 

where  the  life-boat  was  and  the  crowd  made  it  safe. 
"There  are  holes  in  some  places  and  a  good  deal  of 
undertow,"  he  said.  She  assented  very  quietly. 
(Mrs.  Wharton  had  promised  to  bathe  with  her.) 
Then  she  suddenly  rose,  saying  she  had  forgotten 
something  she  wanted  to  tell  Catharine,  and  went 
back  to  the  kitchen. 

Silence  followed  her  exit.  Mrs.  Wharton  hardly 
knew  whether  she  was  glad  or  sorry  that  John  had 
refused  the  apparently  simple  request.  His  granting 
it  would  certainly  offend  and  hurt  his  mother,  but  on 
the  other  hand —  "How  could  he  refuse  her?"  she 
wondered  again,  while  her  active  needles  put  material 
beyond  those  dropped  stitches  that  would  all  have  to 
be  pulled  out  next  morning. 

John  got  up,  saying  he  must  look  for  some  papers, 
and  the  social  part  of  the  evening  was  at  an  end. 

She  went  with  Mary  to  the  little  station  next 
morning  to  see  the  travelers  off  on  the  early  train, 
and  was  particularly  tender  in  her  manner  to  the 
downcast  girl  as  they  returned  to  the  cottage. 

Mary,  as  she  walked  to  the  bath  in  her  simple  blue 
suit,  was  to  Mrs.  Wharton's  mind  as  lovely  a  picture 
as  eye  could  wish,  always  excepting  Mary  returning 
from  the  bath.  Then  the  rubber  cap  was  off,  and  the 
sun  could  play  in  the  golden  brown  waves  which,  for 
convenience's  sake,  were  massed  on  top  of  her  head, 
giving  her  a  more  than  usually  grown-up  air,  while  the 
wet  mohair  clung  to  her  nymph-like  figure,  revealing 
all  its  elasticity  and  gra<;e.  The  sun  had  kissed  cheeks 
and  nose,  sprinkling  them  with  tiny  freckles,  which 
the  rich  glow  of  exercise  and  health  hid  from  any 


142  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

but  close  observers.  Mrs.  Wharton,  who  was  far 
from  nymph-like  in  figure,  and  usually  longed  to 
scurry  from  her  bath  by  the  shortest  and  least  fre- 
quented paths,  felt  safe  from  observation  as  she  walked 
by  this  vision  of  girlhood  on  whom  all  eyes  turned. 
"Why  isn't  she  ruined?"  she  asked  herself.  Then  as 
she  saw  two  men  approaching,  she  felt  an  unselfish 
wish  to  intrude  her  bulk  into  the  foreground  between 
them  and  Mary,  who  was  stooping  as  she  walked  and 
wringing  the  water  from  her  short  skirt,  quite  uncon- 
scious of  any  eyes  upon  her.  Mrs.  Wharton's  man- 
euver was  promptly  outwitted  by  the  men,  who  turned 
toward  the  sea,  cutting  diagonally  across  Mary's 
path.  They  were  not  in  bathing  clothes,  but  in  the 
morning  garb  of  exquisites  a  V 'Anglais.  The  younger, 
a  strikingly  thoroughbred,  well  "set-up"  figure, 
with  clear-cut  features  and  brilliant  gray-blue  eyes, 
turned  them  on  Mary  with  an  expression  that  Mrs. 
Wharton  could  not  read.  It  almost  seemed  to  her 
that  his  lips  trembled,  and  there  was  nothing  offensive 
in  his  steady  regard,  as  there  was  in  the  bold  gaze 
of  his  comrade,  whose  face,  originally  good-looking, 
perhaps,  had  been  puffed  and  reddened  by  frequent 
potations,  and  whose  pale  eyes  held  an  insult  in  their 
bold  stare.  Neither  of  them  so  much  as  glanced  at 
Mrs.  Wharton,  who  involuntarily  drew  back. 

As  they  passed  directly  in  front  of  Mary,  she 
straightened  herself  and  looked  at  them  with  the 
startled,  unconscious  dignity  of  pure-hearted  girl- 
hood, coloring  deeply  under  the  double  gaze  so  close 
to  her,  but  showing  not  a  trace  of  the  coquetry  with 
which  girls  sometimes  receive  homage  of  that  sort. 


"Bv  JOVE,  WHAT  A  BEAUTY!"  THE  OLDER  MAN   EXCLAIMED. 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER  143 

"By  Jove,  what  a  beauty !"  the  older  man  exclaimed 
before  they  were  ten  paces  away. 

"Shut  up!"  was  his  companion's  exceedingly  irri- 
tated answer  in  a  much  lower  key,  but  still  distinctly 
audible.  "She  heard  you!" 

"Well,  you  can  bet  it's  no  news  to  her,"  was  the 
older  man's  coarse  retort,  as  he  turned  and  looked  after 
the  quickly  retreating  figures. 

Mrs.  Wharton  glanced  at  the  bright  cheek  nearest 
her,  but  it  was  shaded  by  dark,  drooping  lashes. 

"If  we  have  to  bathe  over  there  often,  I  shall  rent 
a  couple  of  the  Engleside  bath-houses,"  she  said, 
finally,  in  a  very  emphatic  voice. 

Mary  looked  up  quickly,  but  made  no  reply,  and 
they  soon  reached  their  own  very  primitive  dressing 
rooms  in  the  cottage  basement. 

"Mrs.  Wharton,"  Mary  asked  her,  when  they  were 
sitting  on  the  shady  side  of  the  piazza,  a  half  hour 
later,  awaiting  the  luncheon  summons,  "do  you  think 
being  beautiful  will  ever  make  me  disagreeable?" 

The  odd  question  brought  a  very  tender  smile  to 
Mrs.  Wharton's  plain,  strong  face.  She  looked  deep 
into  her  questioner's  honest  eyes,  and  her  little  brown 
ones  were  suffused.  "No,  dear  child,"  she  said  with 
conviction  and  relief  in  her  voice.  "It  never  could!" 

"Father  said  once  that  he  would  have  been  better 
pleased  if  I  had  been  ugly,  or  at  least  plain,  because 
then  I  would  always  have  known  the  people  who  really 
cared  for  me.  He  said  he  would  rather  I  were  loved 
than  admired,  especially  if  it  were  just  for  looks. 
Last  year  he  told  me  about  my  mother."  Her  chin 
quivered.  "I  suppose  everybody  knows  about  her, 


144  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

but  I  never  spoke  about  it  to  anybody  but  John  and 
Catharine." 

Mrs.  Wharton  looked  at  her  compassionately. 
"I  suppose  your  father  thought  you  might  hear  from 
outside  sources  some  day,  and  he  wanted  to  prepare 
you,"  she  said  gently. 

" Perhaps,"  Mary  assented,  "but  he  said  he  wanted 
me  to  see  how  little  happiness  it  brought  to  be  just 
beautiful.  He  said  he  fell  in  love  with  Mother  because 
she  was  beautiful,  and  that  perhaps  men  would  fall 
in  love  with  me  for  the  same  reason!"  Mrs.  Wharton 
could  not  forbear  a  slight  smile.  "But  unless  it  were 
love  for  my  real  self,  and  unless  I  were  true  and  unself- 
ish, they  wouldn't  keep  on  loving  me.  He  said  married 
people  were  never  happy  together  unless  they  were 
good  friends  and  understood  each  other's  ways.  He 
said  some  day  I  would  love  somebody  so  much  I 
would  want  to  die  for  him  (she  colored  and  quivered 
as  though  she  were  capable  now  of  understanding 
that),  and  I  wouldn't  care  whether  he  were  good  or 
bad;  but  he  made  me  write  down  and  keep  it  always 
by  me,  so  I  couldn't  forget,  that  I  promised  him  (I 
mean  Father)  that  I  would  never  marry  anybody 
without  John's  consent,  no  matter  how  unhappy  it 
made  me  not  to.  He  said  John  would  know  and 
would  never  let  anything  but  real  reasons  count 
against  a  man.  So  I  promised,  and  I  wrote  it  down 
and  keep  it  in  my  treasure  box." 

She  was  very  grave  and  her  eyes  were  dark  with  the 
solemn  memory.  "Father  knew  I  would  never  break 
a  promise,"  she  said  proudly,  "no  matter  how  I 
felt."  Mrs.  Wharton  was  silent  before  this  revelation. 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER  145 

What  an  extraordinary  training  hers  had  been  with 
the  father  who  had  tried  to  prepare  her  for  life  at  all 
its  vital  points;  and  what  unbounded  trust  Dick 
Farnham  had  had  in  John!  But  the  responsibility 
for  John  of  such  a  power  of  veto,  under  the  circum- 
stances! She  shivered. 

"If  only  I  could  live  with  John  like  this  always,  I 
don't  think  I'd  ever  want  to  get  married — only- 
She  stopped  and  colored  again.     The  speech  she  had 
asked  Catharine  not  to  repeat  recurred  to  her  mind, 
and  the  feeling  that  had  prompted  it. 

"I  should  like  to  keep  you  always  with  me,"  Mrs. 
Wharton  said,  with  an  impulse  unusual  to  her  unemo- 
tional nature.  "You  must  come  to  me  for  all  your 
vacations  when  you  haven't  something  more  attrac- 
tive to  do.  Will  you?" 

"Why,  Mrs.  Wharton,"  Mary  exclaimed,  rising 
and  throwing  her  arms  about  the  lady's  neck,  "and 
John  too?" 

Mrs.  Wharton  laughed  outright  as  she  warmly 
kissed  the  girl  on  both  cheeks.  "I  can't  get  John  when 
I  want  him,"  she  said,  a  little  wistfully.  "His  mother 
comes  first,  you  know.  He  is  devoted  to  her  and  is 
never  away  from  her  as  he  has  been  this  summer." 

Mary  became  very  grave  and  resumed  her  low 
rocking-chair  without  a  word. 

"Poor  child!"  Mrs.  Wharton  said  to  herself.  "I 
wonder  if  Jane  will  ever  ask  her  there  or  how  she  will 
treat  her  if  she  does . ' '  Her  first  question  was  answered 
that  evening  when  John,  who  arrived  by  the  after- 
noon train,  opened  the  mail  it  had  brought  with  him. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  turning  to  her  with  a  smile  and 

10 


146  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

a  mixture  of  eagerness  and  hesitation,  "my  mother 
wants  to  know  whether  you  will  spend  the  week  before 
you  go  to  Miss  Newlin,  with  us  in  the  city?" 

He  had  been  in  great  spirits  since  his  return,  and 
looked  distinctly  excited  at  this  idea.  "Would  you 
like  to  come?"  he  asked. 

Mary  gave  him  a  look  both  surprised  and  reproach- 
ful. "  Of  course,"  she  said  simply.  Then  seeing  some- 
thing in  his  face  that  she  did  not  understand,  she 
added,  "I  hope  your  mother  will  like  me,  John." 
John  winced  and  came  as  near  prevarication  as  he 
ever  could. 

"Why  did  you  ask  that?  Doesn't  everybody  like 
you?"  He  felt  a  strong  curiosity  to  know  what  had 
caused  this  unwonted  misgiving. 

"Only  Mrs.  Wharton  said  once  that  Mrs.  Brown 
wasn't  a  bit  like  her,  nor  like  you,"  she  paused,  seeing 
a  pained  look  cross  John's  face;  "and  if  you  love  her 
more  than  anybody,  it  would  make  ever  so  much 
difference  to  me."  John  understood  the  somewhat 
lamely  expressed  thought.  "I  think  she  can't  help 
liking  you,"  he  said,  trying  to  make  his  smile  as 
reassuring  as  he  wished,  but  not  perfectly  succeeding. 

"Perhaps  she  won't  want  you  to  come  out  to  Fern- 
wood  every  day?  She  gets  home  on  the  first,  too?" 
The  question  was  a  very  wistful  one.  Some  unusual 
premonition  was  troubling  her  mind.  John's  face 
clouded  heavily.  "I  shouldn't  feel  it  right,  anyhow; 
I  have  been  away  from  her  so  long,"  he  said  with 
sudden  weariness.  How  near  the  end  seemed! 

Mary's  head  went  down  on  the  table  with  her  face 
turned  from  him.  "Oh,  I  wish  you  hadn't  let  me  get 


A   CHANCE   ENCOUNTER  147 

so  used  to  you!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  broken,  vehement 
voice. 

Mrs.  Wharton  saw  a  storm  of  feeling  sweep  over 
John's  face  and  his  hands  clasp  the  arms  of  his  chair 
as  though  to  hold  himself  down.  She  dropped  her 
eyes  to  her  work.  There  was  a  moment's  breathless 
stillness,  then  he  rose  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  bent 
head. 

"Don't  you  think  I  have  got  used  to  you  too?" 
he  asked,  huskily. 


CHAPTER  XV 

AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE  PROVES  A  NEW  ADMIRER 

EVEN  in  their  remote  cottage  and  leading  so 
quiet  a  life,  the  little  party  was  too  conspic- 
uous to  escape  attention,  and  John  found 
several  guests  of  one  or  other  of  the  two  hotels  who 
were  willing  to  improve  a  slight  acquaintance,  accost- 
ing him  at  every  turn,  with  eyes  upon  Mary,  and 
sometimes  even  suggesting  that  he  and  his  "ward," 
or  "adopted  daughter,"  or  "young  friend,"  more 
seldom  "Miss  Farnham"  (the  titles  varied  with  the 
more  or  less  knowledge  of  the  situation),  would  like 
to  join  in  some  of  the  many  informal  pleasure  parties 
of  the  simple  place.  John  generally  avoided  intro- 
ducing her,  and  always  quietly  declined  the  invita- 
tions, sometimes  explaining  her  recent  loss,  when 
she  was  out  of  earshot,  sometimes  just  urging  other 
plans.  "I  hope  I  did  right  to  decline,"  he  had  said 
to  her  early  in  their  visit,  and  her  ready  assent  sat- 
isfied him.  He  did  not  mean  to  be  selfish,  he  told 
himself,  and  he  wanted  her  to  have  young  compan- 
ions, "but  just  now" — and  so  he  continued  in  almost 
uninterrupted  enjoyment  of  his  rare  privilege,  only 
counting  the  days  as  the  first  of  September  drew 
nearer,  and  almost  frightened  at  the  fierce  attacks 
of  heartache  which  the  approaching  autumn  brought. 

(148) 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE,  NEW  ADMIRER     149 

Over  and  over,  Mary's  broken  words  rang  in  his  ear, 
and  he  spent  hours  of  the  night  working  with  storm- 
and-flood-time  energy  on  his  dyke.  She  had  so 
twined  herself  around  his  heart-strings  that  it  seemed 
as  though  something  must  break,  and  bleed  when 
she  was  taken  away.  It  was  vain  to  call  himself 
hard  names;  to  remind  himself  that  she  was  not 
going  far  from  him,  that  he  might  see  her  often  and 
hear  from  her  almost  daily.  "I  believe  I  have  done 
wrong  to  us  both  in  bringing  her  here,"  he  thought. 
"It  would  have  been  easier  from  Fern  wood." 

" She  will  soon  be  reconciled,  though,  and  will  be 
happy  at  school,  I  know!"  he  told  himself,  not  with- 
out a  selfish  pang;  but  if  not;  if  she  were  homesick 
and  wretched,  what  then?  He  thought  of  George's 
words.  Well,  then  there  would  be  only  one  thing 
to  do.  Go  to  his  mother  and  lay  his  heart  bare  before 
her,  and  beg  her  help;  and  then?  Oh,  no.  He  must 
be  a  man,  not  a  weakling,  and  help  make  a  woman 
of  her.  ."She  must  learn  to  stand  alone  if  her  char- 
acter is  to  be  what  Dick  wanted  it  to  be.  I  must 
not  spoil  her!" 

Active,  pleasure-filled  days  left  little  time  for  brood- 
ing, but  both  Mrs.  Wharton  and  Mary  noticed  a  dif- 
erence  in  him.  They  would  have  been  at  a  loss  to 
point  out  any  difference  in  his  behavior.  An  event, 
which  happened  soon  after  Mary's  outbreak,  gave 
a  new  bent  to  all  their  thoughts. 

One  morning  as  she  was  standing  by  the  steps  of 
the  "Engleside"  piazza,  waiting  for  John  to  come 
with  the  mail,  a  lady  came  toward  her  and  held  out 
her  hand  with  a  very  winning  smile.  Mary  gave 


150  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

hers  with  responsive  readiness,  but  there  was  no 
spark  of  recognition  in  her  mind. 

"You  don't  remember  Mrs.  Wurts  and  Jack?" 
the  lady  said,  her  admiring  eyes  on  the  girl's  suddenly 
brightened  face.  "But  I  saw  you  a  day  or  two  ago, 
and  asked  who  you  were.  I  couldn't  find  out  at  first, 
but  when  I  did,  and  where  you  were  staying,  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  go  and  see  you  to-day."  Her  smile 
suddenly  died,  and  she  said  in  a  very  gentle  voice, 
glancing  at  the  girl's  blue  dress  with  carefully  veiled 
surprise,  "I  heard  from  Catharine,  whom  I  met  one 
day  on  the  street,  of  your  great  trouble;  and  since 
then  I  hear  that  your  father  has  been  released  from 
his  long  suffering."  She  clasped  Mary's  hand  tightly 
and  her  eyes  filled.  "I  can't  tell  you  how  sad  it 
made  me  to  know  of  his  illness!  I  have  thought  of 
you  so  often  and  wished  I  might  meet  you,  but  I 
only  heard  of  you  once  and  then  the  man  only  knew 
that  you  were  living  abroad."  Her  kind  volubility 
spared  Mary  the  need  of  any  answer,  and  she  went 
on.  "You  look  just  as  I  should  have  thought  you 
would.  You  must  be  nearly  sixteen,  for  I  remember 
you  were  two  years  younger  than  Jack.  Oh,  here 
he  comes!"  A  fresh-faced,  wholesome  looking  lad 
in  white  flannels,  carrying  a  striped  "blazer,"  came 
swinging  up  the  path,  and  gave  his  mother  no  time 
to  go  through  the  formalities  of  an  introduction. 

"Well,  this  is  jolly!"  he  exclaimed,  taking  the  hand 
his  mother  released,  and  looking  with  frankly  admir- 
ing eyes  straight  into  Mary's  blushing  face.  "Do 
you  still  bite?"  The  unblushing  effrontery  with 
which  his  gaze  rested  on  her  lips,  made  the  short 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE,  NEW  ADMIRER     151 

upper  one  rise  in  a  very  bright  smile,  and  displayed 
a  formidable  array  of  even  white  teeth. 

"Jack!     You  outrageous  boy!"  his  mother  said, 
in  a  really  shocked  voice;    but  seeing  Mary's  easy 
reception  of  his  impudence,  she  laughed  too.     This 
solemn-looking   giant    coming    toward    them,    must 
be  the  guardian — Dick's  great  friend,  of  whom  she  had 
just  been  told.    Jack  let  go  Mary's  hand  as  the  "sol- 
emn-looking  giant"    reached    them    (he    did    look 
solemn),   and  she  promptly  slipped  it  into  John's 
left  one  as  she  introduced  him  to  her  newly  discovered 
friends.     He  greeted  them  with  even  more  than  his 
usual  cordial  courtesy;    but  Mrs.   Wurts   thought, 
as  she  entered  into  conversation  with  him,  leaving 
the   youngsters   free   to   renew   their   acquaintance, 
that  it  could  not  be  good  for  Mary  to  be  constantly 
in  the  society  of  so  grave  a  man.    It  seemed  as  though 
it  cost  him  an  effort  to  smile  at  all,  and  his  eyes — 
they  were  good  eyes  too — were  so  heavy.     She  was 
glad  they  had  come  upon  Mary  in  time  to  give  her 
a  little  young  society  and  take  her  out  of  herself. 
How  bright  her  face  had  been  when  she  smiled  at 
Jack  a  moment  ago.     No  doubt  this  guardian,  Mr. 
Brown,  was  a  fine  man  (he  made  one  think  of  Lin- 
coln), and  Mary  seemed  fond  of  him;    the  look  on 
her  face,  and  the  fingers  slipped  into  his  as  she  pre- 
sented him,   spoke  of  affectionate  ownership;    but 
he  was  deadly  dull  to  talk  to,  and  how  quickly  Mary 
could  chat  with  Jack.     Their  voices  were  low  now. 
They  were  touching  on  her  troubles.     But  she  was 
not  shy  at  all,  and  they  would  get  on  famously. 
Mrs.  Wurts  decided  that  Jack  would  need  no  encour- 


152  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

agement  to  go  often  to  see  her.  As  these  thoughts 
went  through  her  mind,  she  kept  up  a  string  of  com- 
monplaces about  Beach  Haven  and  her  son  and  her 
pleasure  in  meeting  Mary.  It  is  little  wonder  she 
found  John  dull.  But  when  she  suddenly  turned 
the  conversation  to  the  old  time — and  spoke  of  Dick 
and  pretty  little  Mary,  and  laughingly  rehearsed 
the  episode  of  the  bite,  she  began  to  feel  she  might 
have  misjudged  John.  He  looked  very  far  from  dull 
and  his  laugh  was  not  the  laugh  of  a  stupid  person. 
They  walked  on  together  all  the  way  to  the  cottage, 
where  Mrs.  Wharton  was  introduced,  and  where 
the  newcomers  very  willingly  accepted  John's  invi- 
tation to  sit  down.  Jack  Wurts  proved  not  only  a 
daily  visitor,  but  would  gladly  have  spent  the  days 
if  invited,  and  refused  none  of  the  invitations,  of 
which  John  was  prodigal,  to  sail,  or  visit  the  life- 
saving  station,  or  the  lily-pond  at  Tuckerton  on  the 
mainland,  or  to  share  in  any  of  their  moderate  dis- 
sipations. In  inviting  him  John  felt  much  as  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  must  have  felt  in  performing  the  his- 
toric act  which  has  stood  for  the  acme  of  chivalry, 
only  in  his  own  case  he  had  not  the  heart  to  say,  or 
feel,  that  Jack's  "necessity"  was  "greater  than  his." 
It  was  Mary's  that  concerned  him  nearly.  The  week 
in  the  city  under  his  mother's  eye,  which  he  had  partly 
dreaded,  rose  before  him  as  an  oasis,  though  that 
too  might  turn  out  a  mirage.  If  he  had  noticed  any 
lack  of  enjoyment  of  the  lad  on  Mary's  part,  he 
would  soon  have  managed  to  avoid  him;  but  he  could 
not  help  seeing  that  she  took  pleasure  in  this  new 
kind  of  intercourse  and  liked  Jack's  very  jolly  com- 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE,  NEW  ADMIRER     153 

pany.  There  was  not  the  least  approach  to  senti- 
mentality between  them;  but  then  they  were  rarely 
tete-a-tete.  John's  magnanimity  would  have  reached 
easily  to  that  point;  but  Mary  herself  had  no 
mind  to  dispense  with  his  society,  whoever  else  might 
be  with  her.  "Oh,  John,  aren't  you  coming?"  or 
"Where  are  you  going?"  would  generally  suffice  to 
change  his  purpose.  Certain  things  were,  in  her 
mind,  John's  special  province,  and  when  Jack  asked 
her  to  go  to  church,  or  to  bathe  with  him,  she  calmly 
declined  with  no  other  excuse  than  that  she  wanted 
to  go  with  John. 

George  Raymond  had  come  down  to  spend  the 
first  Sunday  of  this  new  regime  with  them,  and  he 
listened  in  pleased  and  touched  amusement  to  a 
colloquy  which  took  place  under  his  nose  on  the  piazza, 
of  the  cottage.  He  had  not  heard  the  invitation 
given,  but  he  heard  Mary's  distinct  refusal. 

"Does  Mr.  Brown  always  expect  you  to  go  to 
church  with  him?"  John  was  upstairs  at  the  moment. 

"Expect!"  was  Mary's  quick  retort.  "No,  he 
never  expects  anything,  but  I'm  going  to  church 
with  him  as  long  as  I  live — if  I  can."  A  sudden 
recollection  clouded  her  face.  "Only  I  won't  have 
many  more  chances  now,  for  I  have  to  go  to  school, 
and —  She  broke  off  abruptly,  remembering  that 
Sundays  after  that  were  an  unknown  quantity. 
Jack  recognized  the  signs  of  feeling  that  was  a  little 
too  strong.  He  was  very  much  disappointed;  for 
his  mother  had  willingly  excused  his  attendance  on 
her,  and  he  had  felt  no  little  elation  at  the  thought 
of  escorting  this  "prettiest  girl  in  the  whole  place," 


154  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

and  showing  on  what  intimate  terms  they  already 
stood ;  but  he  had  good  stuff  in  him,  and  he  admired 
real  feeling,  and  was,  moreover,  touched  by  the 
thought  of  Mary's  fatherless  condition.  He  supposed 
her  home  was  with  John,  in  town  or  out,  that  she 
was  "adopted,"  or  " something  of  that  sort,"  but, 
of  course,  John  "wasn't  her  father  by  a  jugful  and  it 
was  tough  having  to  go  to  boarding-school." 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  to  school?"  he  asked, 
sympathetically.  "I'm  sure  Mr.  Brown  'd  let  you 
go  to  day-school,  if  you  liked  better." 

"You  don't  understand,"  Mary  said,  with  a  dignity 
that  George  thought  very  womanly.  He  saw  her 
chin  tremble  and  her  brave  and  successful  effort  at 
self-control,  as  she  went  on  quietly.  "I  don't  live 
with  John.  I  am  to  live  with  Miss  Newlin,  who 
owns  the  school." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  He  evidently  saw  a  good  deal. 
"Well,  I  hope  awfully  much  you'll  like  it,  and  I 
know  you  will.  Girls  have  great  times  at  boarding- 
school,  and  you're  bound  to  make  a  heap  of  friends 
in  no  time."  Mary  smiled  a  courageous  little  smile, 
but  said  nothing.  The  boy's  eyes  rested  on  her  with 
an  expression  that  was  almost  loverlike.  "Will 
they  let  fellows  come  out  to  see  you  sometimes?" 
he  asked,  eagerly. 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  so.  Miss  Newlin  only 
said  she  hoped  John  would  come  out  as  often  as  he 
wanted."  The  recollection  seemed  wonderfully 
cheering.  "I  like  Miss  Newlin  very  much,"  she 
added. 

"Mr.  Brown  is  in  luck,"  Jack  said,  sententiously, 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE,  NEW  ADMIRER     155 

"and  you've  got  the  right  sort  of  grit.  Well,  if  you 
won't  go  to  church,  what  are  you  going  to  do  this 
afternoon?" 

"Entertain  Mr.  Raymond,"  Mary  said  demurely. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  Jack  burst  out  laughing  in  George's 
face  and  walked  off  in  excellent  humor,  in  spite  of 
his  many  reverses. 

In  the  afternoon,  as  Mary  sat  on  a  rubber  blanket 
between  her  two  cavaliers  with  breastworks  of  sand 
as  backing  for  the  party,  he  strolled  along  and  took 
up  a  stand  in  front  of  her,  looking  ruefully  down  on 
her  barricaded  state.  "I  hope  you're  enjoying  your 
entertainment,  Mr.  Raymond,"  he  said  at  last, 
making  a  wry  face  at  George,  who  he  decided  was  a 
"darned  good-looking  fellow  and  not  so  awfully  old, 
either." 

"I  never  enjoyed  myself  better,"  George  said, 
smiling  provokingly  up  at  him.  As  for  John,  his 
face  expressed  absolute  contentment.  Mary's  hand 
had  gone  straight  into  his  when  she  saw  the  youthful 
swain  approaching,  and  she  had  said  in  the  tone  of 
supreme  command  which  she  knew  how  to  use  when 
need  was:  "John,  you're  not  to  budge,  for  politeness 
nor  anything  else!"  So  John  retained  his  place,  and 
was  slow  about  relinquishing  the  hand,  the  more  so 
that  the  roguish  sea-breeze,  turning  accomplice, 
covered  it  with  a  fold  of  the  shawl,  Mary  had  put 
down  between  them.  The  fact  that  he  might  have 
held  her  hand,  unrebuked,  before  the  world,  made 
the  little  happening  none  the  less  deliciously  clan- 
destine. 

Jack  stood  awhile,  chatting  easily.      He  had  all 


156  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

the  freshman's  self-confidence,  but  he  decided  he  was 
out  of  it  this  time,  and  strolled  off  down  the  beach 
to  try  his  luck  with  a  more  approachable  damsel 
whom  he  knew. 

As  Mary's  eyes  came  back  from  following  him  for 
some  distance,  they  suddenly  met  another  pair 
directed  straight  at  her  and  she  recognized  the  good- 
looking  man  who  had  looked  so  intently  at  her  the 
other  day  on  the  beach,  and  who  had  told  his  com- 
panion to  "shut  up."  There  had  been  some  fascina- 
tion about  him  for  Mary,  and  she  had  seen  those 
same  eyes  in  her  mental  vision  several  times,  and  had 
even  idly  wondered  what  it  would  be  like  to  talk  to 
a  man  who  looked  like  that,  and  whether  if  "he" 
looked  like  that  when  the  time  came  for  a  "he," 
John  would  approve  of  him. 

He  was  walking  slowly,  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
and  his  figure  bent  forward  as  though  more  intent 
on  his  own  thoughts  than  on  the  fine  surf  or  scattered 
groups  of  "beachers."  His  face,  from  listless,  turned 
to  lively,  as  his  eyes  fell  on  Mary.  His  path  was 
directly  in  front  of  them,  without  malice  prepense, 
and  he  did  not  look  at  the  trio  more  than  courtesy 
permitted;  but  in  that  instant  he  had  contrived  to 
make  her  understand  that  he  recognized  her  and  was 
pleased  to  recognize  her.  John  saw  nothing  unusual 
in  the  stranger's  glance  at  Mary — it  was  an  old  story — 
but  he  did  notice  her  color  rise  and  her  lashes  droop. 
When  she  looked  up  at  him  a  moment  later,  however, 
her  eyes  were  as  frank  as  usual. 

"That's  Dave  Chandler,"  George  said,  in  the  voice 
of  one  who  tells  an  interesting  fact.  "He's  a  very 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE,  NEW  ADMIRER     157 

aristocratic  looking  fellow,  isn't  he?  But  from  what 
I  hear,  he's  pretty  fast." 

"What  does  'fast'  mean,  Mr.  Raymond?"  Mary 
asked,  with  evident  interest  to  know.  "I  asked 
Father  once  and  he  said  he  didn't  just  know.  He 
had  lived  out  of  the  world  all  his  life  and  didn't  know 
just  what  'fast'  people  did." 

That  from  honest  Dick !  George  hesitated.  "Does 
it  mean  he  hasn't  good  principles?"  she  asked. 

"That's  just  about  what  it  does  mean,"  he  answered, 
with  relief.  "He  may  have  good  points.  That  man 
has,  I  know;  but  he  has  a  screw  loose  somewhere  in 
his  moral  machinery." 

With  this  Mary  was  fain  to  be  content,  though 
neither  the  subject  nor  its  object  entirely  left  her  mind. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  " LITTLE  GREEN  SNAKE" 

THE  Brown  house  on  Arch  Street  was  a  double 
one,  with  large  rooms  on  each  side  of  the 
hall.  The  entrance  was  several  feet  above 
the  street  and  was  approached  by  a  flight  of  those 
white  marble  steps,  so  typical  of  the  Quaker  City 
and  so  trying  to  the  souls  of  careful  housekeepers. 
If  John  Patterson  had  kept  account  of  the  hours  he 
had  spent  on  his  knees  restoring  the  dazzling  purity 
of  those  steps,  and  could  have  subtracted  it  from 
the  sum  total  of  his  years,  he  would  have  looked 
considerably  younger  than  he  did  on  the  morning 
of  Mary's  arrival,  as  he  sprinkled  marble-sand  and 
plied  his  much-used  scrubbing-brush.  (Other  people 
might  find  modern  inventions  for  cleaning  their  steps, 
but  Mrs.  Brown  always  used  sand.)  He  was  much 
excited  at  the  prospect  of  their  visitor.  Nothing 
so  unusual  had  happened  in  that  house  for  years, 
and  though  both  he  and  Hannah  had  passed  the  age 
when  excitement  was  necessary  to  them,  they  had 
enjoyed  the  weeks  at  Beach  Haven  extraordinarily, 
and  the  house  in  Arch  Street  had  seemed  painfully 
quiet  afterward.  One  morning  he  had  mildly  hinted 
as  much  to  John,  who  was  awaiting  his  mother  in 
the  dining-room  where  our  acquaintance  with  him 

(158) 


THE   "LITTLE   GREEN   SNAKE"        159 

first  began.  John  had  given  him  a  curious  look, 
with  what  tried  to  be  a  smile,  and  then  had  said 
with  a  sigh:  "We  mustn't  expect  vacation  all  the 
year  round." 

"No,  but  I  wish  we  had  Miss  Mary  all  the  year 
round!"  was  the  bold  answer.  Its  boldness  had  so 
surprised  himself  that  he  had  beat  a  hasty  retreat 
to  the  pantry  without  even  looking  at  his  master, 
whose  head  was  bent  over  his  letters. 

And  now  they  were  to  have  her  for  a  short  week! 
Would  she  seem  the  same  in  such  different  surround- 
ings, and  would  Mrs.  Brown  "take  to  her"  as  both 
John  and  Hannah  devoutly  hoped?  If  she  only 
would!  And  would  suggest  Mary's  coming  to  live 
there;  or  if —  "She'll  be  growin'  up  before  long," 
the  honest  soul  said  to  himself,  as  he  plied  his  brush 
with  renewed  energy.  Hannah  put  her  head  out 
of  the  window  of  the  right-hand,  third-floor  front, 
and  smiled  down  on  his  bent,  unconscious  back. 
She  had  picked  a  little  bunch  of  heliotrope  and  tea 
rosebuds,  and  arranged  them  in  just  such  a  posy 
as  she  had  often  watched  Mary  make,  and  disposed 
it  on  the  dressing  table  with  tender  care,  adjusting 
and  readjusting  it  half  a  dozen  times  before  she  seemed 
to  find  it  satisfactory. 

The  modest  trunk  had  come  and  was  already  in- 
stalled at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "I  wish  I  had  the  key 
to  it,"  Hannah  thought,  "and  could  have  her  own 
things  about  so  she'd  feel  at  home  right  away."  She 
shared  her  "better-half's"  unspoken  apprehension. 

The  house  was  divided,  downstairs,  into  a  square 
library  on  the  right,  as  you  entered,  with  the  stairs 


160  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

in  an  alcove  behind  it,  and  behind  those,  the  afore- 
said dining-room  "giving"  on  the  high- walled  garden 
which  was  John's  pride.  To  the  left  of  the  hall 
there  had  once  been  a  single  room  of  immense  size, 
such  as  one  only  finds  in  those  old-fashioned,  high- 
ceiled  houses;  but  John's  father  had  had  it  parti- 
tioned, and  had  converted  the  back  end  into  a  snug 
"den"  for  himself,  which  was  at  the  time  of  which 
I  write,  John's  own  sanctum.  Here  no  one  disturbed 
him  without  cause,  and  into  it  none  of  their  rare 
guests  so  much  as  peeped.  Mr.  Brown  had  always 
been  jealous  of  liberties  with  his  room,  and  the  chil- 
dren had  never  gone  into  it  except  on  an  errand,  or 
by  special  invitation  to  play  under  their  father's 
eye.  His  wife  had  recognized  the  sanctity  of  every 
book  and  paper  and  had  always  given  strict  injunc- 
tions to  the  man  or  maid  whose  business  it  was  to 
clean  it.  She  had  seldom  sat  down  in  the  room 
unless  to  consult  her  husband  on  important  business; 
and  gentle  as  John's  whole  regime  was,  the  old  feeling 
of  awe  hovered  over  the  little  precincts,  and  no  one 
entered  uninvited  except  to  sweep  or  dust.  John 
had  often  asked  his  mother  to  come  in  and  sit  with 
him,  but  she  frankly  confessed  that  she  never  felt 
at  home  there,  and  he  was,  on  the  whole,  relieved 
to  have  this  spot  where  he  was  left  entirely  to  himself 
and  where  every  paper  or  book  that  he  put  down 
stayed  just  where  he  could  "put  his  hands  on  it," — 
to  use  his  father's  favorite  expression.  She  had  a 
little  sitting-room  just  above,  separated  from  her 
large  front  bedroom  by  a  bathroom,  added  at  a 
later  date,  and  lighted  by  a  shaft  to  the  roof.  The 


THE   "LITTLE   GREEN  SNAKE"        161 

room  had  been  Margaret's  as  a  child,  and  only  her 
mother  had  used  it  since.  John  had  expressed  his 
wish  to  give  up  his  second  floor  bedroom  to  their 
visitor,  but  had  not  pressed  the  point  in  the  face  of 
his  mother's  astonished  disapproval.  He  always 
longed  for  his  old  third-story  quarters,  where  he  was 
out  of  the  way  in  case  of  a  guest,  and  to  make  this 
guest  climb  above  him  was  a  hard  trial. 

"You  will  completely  spoil  her,  John,"  Mrs.  Brown 
said  sharply,  looking  narrowly  at  his  heightened  color. 
She  had  had  his  room  connected  with  hers  by  a  glass 
partition  across  the  end  of  the  hall,  over  the  lower 
half  of  which  ran  crimson  silk  curtains.  In  this  little 
neutral  space  between  their  two  rooms  she  loved  to 
sit  with  her  sewing  (she  was  not  a  great  reader)  and  it 
was  here  that  she  sat  enthroned  in  state — for  her 
backbone  was  unusually  straight — while  John  Pat- 
terson and  Hannah  were  so  eagerly  preparing  for 
their  visitor.  She  felt  the  excitement  in  the  air; 
she  had  seen  it  in  John's  face  in  the  morning,  and  in 
the  faces  of  both  her  servants;  and  had  looked  with 
cool  inquiry  at  the  little  nosegay  that  Hannah  carried 
to  the  upper  regions.  The  glass  door  was  wide  and 
the  curtains  drawn.  She  could  see  all  that  went  on 
and  Hannah  felt  constrained  to  explain  two  or  three 
borrowed  articles  that  "she  thought  Mr.  John  would 
like  put  in  Miss  Mary's  room."  Mrs.  Brown  felt 
sure  that  she  had  heard  him  go  up  there  himself  that 
morning  before  breakfast;  but  when,  prompted  by 
curiosity  rather  than  hospitality,  she  had  later  climbed 
the  stairs,  she  had  seen  no  signs  of  his  visit.  She  was 
determined  to  receive  this  girl  very  graciously,  but 

11 


162  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

resented  the  sort  of  covert  ovation  they  seemed  to  be 
planning  for  her. 

A  florist's  box  of  generous  proportions  had  come 
soon  after  breakfast  and  she  had  looked  with  impassive 
face  at  the  address:  "Miss  Mary  Farnham,  care 
of  Mr.  John  Brown,  etc.,"  while  deciding  that  John 
himself  must  have  sent  it.  "She  doesn't  know  any- 
body else,  does  she?"  was  her  mental  question,  as 
she  calmly  told  John  Patterson  to  put  it  in  the  cellar 
Cll  "Miss  Farnham"  came.  Poor  lady,  she  had  suf- 
fered much  that  summer  and  suspected  that  there 
was  more  in  store  for  her. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  John's  latch-key  in  the  door 
— or,  to  be  more  exact,  she  heard  the  opening  of  the 
door  which  she  knew  had  followed  the  latch-key. 
She  rose  and  went  to  the  landing  of  the  staircase, 
but  as  there  were  two  turnings,  she  could  not  see 
the  hall  below. 

"I'm  up  here,  John,"  she  called  in  her  pleasant, 
well-bred  voice.  Surely,  even  her  scrupulously 
cordial  plan  of  behavior  did  not  require  her  to  go 
down  stairs  to  receive  this  school-girl! 

"Very  well,  Mother,  we'll  come  right  up,"  was  the 
ready  answer.  Was  it  imagination  that  the  tone  was 
less  cheery  than  usual? 

"I'll  put  your  umbrella  in  the  rack,  down  here, 
Mary,"  she  heard  him  say;  "it  will  be  handier." 

There  was  no  audible  reply  and  she  did  not  see 
the  meeting  of  the  two  pairs  of  eyes  as  John  stood 
aside  to  give  his  companion  precedence  on  the  stairs. 
Both  were  upturned  as  they  rounded  the  landing, 
and  John  said,  with  just  a  suspicion  of  effort  in  his 


THE   "LITTLE   GREEN  SNAKE"       163 

voice:  "You  didn't  expect  us  so  soon,  did 
you?" 

"No,"  she  answered  abstractedly,  her  eyes  on  Mary. 
Even  while  she  smiled,  a  perfectly  irreproachable, 
welcoming  smile,  and  held  out  her  hand  at  the  stair 
head,  her  mind  was  busy  wondering  how  much  this 
girl  knew  of  her  own  power.  No  one  could  look  like 
that  and  not  know  it ! 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "John  has 
written  me  so  much  about  you."  She  had  meant  to 
add  a  few  words  of  sympathy,  but  the  words  balked. 

Something  of  wistfulness  in  the  grave,  candid 
eyes  that  met  hers  unwaveringly,  destroyed  her  per- 
fect composure  and  gave  her  the  uncomfortable 
sensation  of  being  "weighed  in  the  balance  and  found 
wanting."  Was  it  the  same  face  that  had  responded 
so  warmly  to  Mrs.  Wharton's  first  greeting,  the  same 
Mary  who  had  been  all  over  the  Beach  Haven  cot- 
tage in  ten  minutes  and  whom  Hannah  had  described 
as  "sunshine!"  John  felt  the  difference  acutely. 
He  intuitively  knew  that  his  fears  had  not  been 
groundless.  This  quiet,  self-possessed  young  woman 
had  pride  as  well  as  wistfulness  in  her  face,  and  looked 
years  older  than  the  child  of  Beach  Haven. 

"Your  trunk  has  come.  Would  you  rather  go 
straight  to  your  room,  or  will  you  sit  down  here  for 
a  little  while  first?"  Mrs.  Brown  asked,  hastily 
covering  Mary's  lack  of  words.  "I  know  Hannah 
has  tried  to  make  things  comfortable,  but  if  there 
is  anything  you  want,  you  must  let  me  know." 
The  tone  was  kind  and  the  voice  reminded  Mary  a 
little  of  John's,  but  she  felt  no  wish  to  sit  down, 


164  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

and  was  relieved  that  Mrs.  Brown  evidently  did  not 
expect  it. 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  believe  I  shall  want  anything," 
she  said  very  quietly. 

John's  quick  ear  and  eye  detected  what  was  hidden 
to  his  mother.  He  would  not  let  her  leave  them  so! 
All  the  cowardice  of  which  he  was  capable  was  tug- 
ging at  his  will.  He  downed  it  with  a  quick  resolu- 
tion. With  the  most  matter-of-course  tenderness 
he  put  his  arm  around  the  girl  and  drew  her  close 
to  him,  smiling  down  at  her  in  a  way  to  disperse  any 
possible  cloud  of  formality. 

"The  city  will  seem  strange  to  you,  I  am  afraid," 
he  said,  "but  I  will  show  you  my  little  bit  of  country 
when  you  come  down.  You  won't  be  long,  will  you?" 

His  loyal  effort  was  entirely  successful  so  far  as 
Mary  was  concerned.  Her  face  was  transfigured 
in  a  moment;  but  he  could  hardly  have  done  anything 
less  calculated  to  unbend  his  mother.  The  sight  of 
John  in  such  a  relation  to  any  girl,  much  less  a  girl 
who  looked  as  mature  as  this  one,  hurt  Mrs.Brown 
to  the  quick,  and  she  could  hardly  summon  enough 
self-control  to  smile  a  wan  little  smile.  There  must 
be  many  mothers  who  can  deeply  sympathize  with 
her.  It  seemed  to  her  the  hardest  moment  she  had 
known  since  Margaret's  death. 

"Hannah,"  she  called  in  a  constrained  voice, 
"will  you  show  Miss  Farnham  her  room." 

Mary  mounted  the  stairs  like  her  old  self  as  the 
cordial  response  came  from  above,  and  Mrs.  Brown 
heard  the  pleasure  in  both  voices  as  they  greeted 
each  other.  There  was  no  doubt  that  this  unwished- 


THE   "LITTLE   GREEN  SNAKE"       165 

for  guest  was  regarded  by  most  of  the  household  as, 
in  some  sense,  a  member  of  the  family.  If  she  had 
seen  Mary's  arms  thrown  impulsively  around  the 
beaming  Hannah,  and  her  hearty  kiss  as  heartily 
returned,  she  would  have  known  that  the  conquest 
was  complete  in  that  quarter.  She  could  see  that 
it  was  complete  with  John,  though  she  did  not  yet 
understand  what  that  meant.  He  tried  to  seem 
his  natural  self,  but  the  effort  was  unavailing,  and 
they  had  never  talked  together  across  such  a  gulf. 
Dick  Farnham  had  never  so  effectually  come  between 
them  as  this  child  of  his.  If  Mrs.  Brown  could  only 
have  opened  her  heart  to  the  girl  as  spontaneously 
as  Mrs.  Wharton  had  done,  this  story  would  have 
been  quite  different. 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  she  said  in  the  manner 
of  one  who  is  determined  to  be  perfectly  fair;  but  the 
sequel  soon  came  out:  "She  reminds  me  very  much 
of  her  father." 

"Does  she?"  John  exclaimed,  surprised.  "She 
is  very  like  him,  but  I  didn't  think  of  your  seeing  a 
likeness  in  her  face." 

"It  is  in  the  way  she  has  of  looking  at  you  and  the 
expression  about  her  mouth  and  chin.  She  will  not 
always  be  easy  to  manage,  I  am  afraid."  She  tried 
to  say  it  lightly,  but  her  manner  and  voice  had  a  touch 
of  asperity.  John  looked  pained,  but  made  no  answer. 
There  was  the  sound  of  a  laugh  from  above — a  very 
pretty,  merry  little  laugh  it  must  have  seemed  to 
anyone — Mrs.  Brown  saw  his  face  brighten  and 
soften.  It  told  more  than  his  smile  and  caress  had 
done  a  few  minutes  ago. 


166  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

On  the  way  to  the  garden  John  showed  Mary  the 
rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  and  her  interest  in  all  the 
things  that  concerned  him  personally  brought  the 
pleased  color  again  and  again  to  his  face.  She  looked 
all  around  the  sacred  "den"  without  knowing  that 
she  was  taking  an  unheard-of  liberty;  asking  where 
his  favorite  books  were,  taking  them,  one  by  one, 
out  of  the  cases  and  handling  them  with  loving  rin- 
gers and  evident  curiosity  as  to  their  contents. 

"You  may  come  here  at  any  time  to  read  or  amuse 
yourself,"  he  said  eagerly,  "whether  I  am  here  or 
not.  It  will  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  have  you." 

"And  I  shan't  disturb  you  if  you  are  writing  or 
reading?"  Mary  asked  with  adoring  eyes  raised  to 
his  and  the  soft  color  flushing  all  her  fair  face.  He 
suspected  that  she  would  very  much  disturb  the  even 
tenor  of  his  thoughts,  and  it  was  characteristic  of 
him  that  he  did  not  deny  it,  but  said  simply:  "If 
you  do  I  shall  like  to  be  disturbed." 

She  did  not  thank  him  in  words;  she  gave  him  a 
look  that  made  his  pulses  throb,  and  with  the  grace 
and  simplicity  of  a  loving  child,  she  stooped  and 
kissed  the  book  she  held,  a  much  worn  copy  of  Rob- 
ert Browning's  "Men  and  Women,"  which  John 
had  just  said  was  perhaps  the  one  he  loved  best  of 
all.  He  suddenly  drew  away  from  her  and  seemed 
to  be  hunting  something  on  his  desk. 

When  they  came  in  from  the  garden  to  luncheon 
John  Patterson  bethought  himself  of  the  florist's 
box  and  produced  it  at  once,  smiling  all  over  his  broad 
face.  Mary  looked  in  astonishment  at  the  big  box, 
and  colored  prettily.  It  was  her  first  experience 


THE   "LITTLE   GREEN   SNAKE"        167 

of  this  sort  of  attention,  and  even  Mrs.  Brown  had 
to  own  that  her  manner  was  natural  and  good.  The 
box  held  an  over-sumptuous  mass  of  roses  and  Jack 
Wurts'  card.  He  had  shown  a  good  deal  of  feeling 
over  a  bathing  accident  she  had  had  just  before 
leaving  Beach  Haven  and  had  been  at  the  station 
to  see  her  off  next  morning,  with  a  notebook  ready 
for  any  number  of  addresses,  and  repeatedly  expressed 
intentions  of  seeing  her  soon  and  often. 

"It  is  very  nice  of  him,"  she  said  with  shy  pleasure, 
"but  I  wish  he  hadn't  sent  so  many!" 

For  a  wonder  John's  jealousy  of  the  lad  had  been 
quite  laid  to  rest.  "Perhaps  he  thought  the  extent 
of  his  regard  could  only  be  expressed  in  numbers," 
he  answered  with  a  merry  little  smile.  His  mother 
looked  at  him  keenly,  but  she  saw  that  he  was  not 
acting.  She  did  her  best  during  luncheon,  and  Mary's 
normal  belief  in  the  good  will  of  all  the  world  came 
back  in  some  degree.  She  was  so  patently  simple  and 
direct  that  Mrs.  Brown  could  not  long  accuse  her  of 
designs  to  subjugate  John;  but  the  jealous  pain  was 
none  the  less,  as  she  marked  the  signs  of  her  unconscious 
influence. 

"I  always  thought  he  was  happy  with  me,"  she 
said  to  herself  with  a  sore  heart,  and  as  she  met  his 
eyes  with  that  look  of  soft  content  in  their  very 
depths,  she  had  much  ado  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

But  poor  Mary  was  fated  to  rub  against  all  her 
hostess'  pet  theories  and  prejudices,  and  John's 
happiness  was  to  be  of  a  very  mixed  kind. 

Next  morning  he  announced  that,  before  starting 
to  his  office,  he  must  glance  over  some  papers  that  had 


168  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

come  by  the  morning's  mail,  and  retired  promptly 
with  them  to  his  den.  Mary  went  up  to  her  room, 
and  Mrs.  Brown  thought  her  still  there  when,  a  half 
hour  later,  she  went  to  the  door  of  the  den  to  remind 
John  of  an  important  engagement.  What  was  her 
astonishment  and  anger  to  see  Mary  seated  on  a  stool 
near  him,  "rummaging"  (so  Mrs.  Brown  denned  it) 
in  a  drawer  of  the  sacred  desk.  Her  face  told  her 
feelings  in  no  uncertain  language  as  she  stopped  in  the 
doorway  and  said  icily,  "I  beg  pardon  for  disturbing 
you,  but  I  wanted  you  to  be  sure  not  to  forget  to  go 
to  Carter's  about  the  range." 

John  turned  himself  quickly  on  his  screw-chair 
and  rose  with  color  heightened  by  her  tone.  Mary, 
too,  scrambled  to  her  feet,  trying  not  to  drop  her 
treasure  trove,  but  several  daguerrotype  cases  rolled 
upon  the  floor.  Mrs.  Brown's  indignant  eyes  took 
pointed  note  of  them,  and  then  swept  the  innocent 
offender  as  no  one  had  ever  looked  at  her  in  her  life. 
No  words  were  needed.  Not  a  word  did  either  of  her 
listeners  say  as  she  turned  away  and  mounted  the 
stairs  with  heavy  tread. 

Mary  had  reseated  herself,  and  was  picking  up  the 
fallen  daguerreotypes  and  putting  them  back  in  their 
places.  John  sat  down  mechanically  and  seemed  lost 
in  thought  till  he  heard  her  softly  shutting  the  drawer. 
He  started  and  turned  toward  her.  "What  are  you 
doing?"  he  asked  sharply. 

She  did  not  look  at  him.  "I  would  rather  go  away 
now,"  she  said  pushing  the  drawer  home  and  moving 
as  if  to  rise.  "I  know  your  mother  thinks  I  ought 
not  to  have  come  in  here." 


THE   "LITTLE   GREEN  SNAKE"       169 

But  John  had  grasped  her  hands  and  held  her  fast. 
His  gaunt  face  was  all  a-quiver. 

"No,  no!"  he  said  thickly.  "My  mother  does  not 
understand!  I  will  explain  to  her;  I  will  tell  her  that 
I  asked  you  to  come — that  I  want  you —  Oh,  child !" 
as  he  saw  her  pale  and  grave,  the  determination 
on  her  face  unshaken,  "let  me  keep  you  with  me  every 
minute  I  can!"  It  was  like  a  cry  of  pain.  He  felt 
that  he  had  startled  her  by  his  passion,  and  let  go  her 
hands,  while  he  made  a  strong  and  successful  effort 
to  control  himself.  "It  was  always  the  rule  that  we 
were  never  to  disturb  Father  when  he  was  busy  here," 
he  said  quietly,  "and  Mother  clings  to  the  old  tradition, 
though  I  have  often  asked  her  to  come  in.  I  have 
been  fond  of  being  alone  here,  but —  He  took  her 
hand  again  and  held  it  fast.  There  was  a  long  pause. 

"You  have  only  been  here  a  few  minutes,  but  I — " 
He  choked  in  spite  of  the  effort  to  be  calm. 

Almost  she  understood.  She  did  not  look  up,  but 
drew  the  hand  that  held  hers  till  her  hot  cheek  rested 
upon  it.  Deep  was  answering  unto  deep.  For  many 
minutes  there  was  no  sound  in  the  little  room  but 
the  ticking  of  the  clock. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"FORM"  AND  SUBSTANCE 

JOHN  tried  hard  to  make  up  to  his  mother  for  all 
he  knew  she  suffered  on  Mary's  account,  but  even 
his  tenderness  and  tact  were  misinterpreted. 
He  felt  it  so,  and  forgave  her  because  he  understood 
and  knew  himself  to  be  an  offender.  How  could  he 
give  her  the  one  thing  she  wanted — the  assurance 
that  she  still  held  the  first  place  with  him?  Mrs. 
Brown,  on  her  part,  felt  the  futility — the  worse  than 
futility — of  criticizing  Mary  to  John.  She  knew  that 
adverse  criticism,  however  mildly  and  carefully  uttered, 
hurt  and  troubled  him  (though  to  her  credit  be  it 
said  she  had  no  idea  how  much).  She  did  try  to  be 
just,  and  even  generous,  but  it  was  not  in  human  nature 
to  refrain  from  pointing  out  to  him  certain  palpably 
weak  spots  in  his  idol.  "She  was  thankful  he  was 
fond  of  her  since  he  must  perforce  be  burdened  with 
the  care  of  her,  but  it  aggravated  her  to  see  him  making 
himself  ridiculous.  If  he  wanted  her  sitting  in  his  den 
while  he  was  at  work,  why — that  was  all  there  was 
about  it!"  But  it  wasn't  all  by  any  means,  as  John 
knew,  and  as  Mary  knew.  Nothing  would  induce 
Mary  to  accept  the  freedom  of  the  sacred  premises 
during  John's  absence,  and  though  she  yielded  to  his 
passionately  expressed  wish  to  have  her  with  him 

(170) 


"FORM"  AND   SUBSTANCE  171 

when  he  was  at  home,  the  pleasure  was  inevitably 
marred  for  them  both. 

Mrs.  Brown  had  early  voiced  her  disapproval  of 
Mary's  calling  her  guardian  by  his  "Christian" 
name.  "  It  is  not  fitting,"  she  said  severely,  "  and  you 
ought  to  tell  her  so  for  her  own  sake.  People  will 
comment  on  her  behavior  to  you,  too,  as  well  as  on 
the  title." 

John  had  the  grace  to  blush  hotly,  but  he  answered 
her  steadily:  "You  are  entirely  mistaken,  Mother. 
I  asked  her  to  call  me  John  instead  of  'Uncle  John', 
which  was  her  own  choice." 

Mrs.  Brown  looked  at  him  sharply  and  searchingly. 
"I  don't  understand  you,  John,"  she  said  coldly. 
"If  you  wish  to  raise  her  to  your  own  generation, 
you  should  not  fondle  her  as  you  do." 

John's  color  faded  out  and  left  his  face  white  and 
set.  His  mother  had  thrust  ruthlessly  through  the 
weak  spot  in  his  armor  and  stabbed  him  home.  He 
waited  a  moment  before  he  answered  quietly:  "You 
don't  suppose  that  I  am  just  taking  advantage  of  her 
innocence  and  my  position  of  trust!  I  have  tried 
not  to — to  touch  her — except  when  it  seemed  right; 
but  she  has  been  used  to  very  affectionate  little  cus- 
toms with  her  father,  and  she — she  is  fond  of  me — 
and  accepts  me  in  his  place.  It  would  have  been 
cruel  to  have  held  off  at  first,  when  she  needed  every- 
thing I  could  give  her;  but — I  do  want  to  make  her 
understand  by  degrees."  He  tried  unsuccessfully 
to  keep  those  tell-tale  lips  from  trembling.  His 
mother  was  touched,  but  far  from  satisfied. 

"I  suppose  staying  with  that  Irish  woman  who 


172  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

nursed  her  has  made  her  feel  more  at  home  in  the 
kitchen  than  in  the  parlor,"  she  said  with  involuntary 
sarcasm.  "I  never  heard  her  say  anything  coarse," 
she  added  in  a  milder  tone;  "but  I  do  wish  she  could 
be  more  like  other  girls!" 

John  could  have  found  it  in  his  sore  heart  to  smile. 
"You  need  not  worry  about  that,  Mother,"  he  said 
dryly.  "Boarding  school  will  change  her  fast  enough." 

"Well,  I  shall  be  thankful  when  she  is  there!" 
The  words  were  no  sooner  out  than  she  regretted  them, 
but  she  could  not  say  so.  "I  mean  on  your  account," 
she  added  lamely. 

John  went  to  his  own  room  and  began  to  get  ready 
for  bed,  but  he  stopped  midway  and  sank  into  a  chair 
by  the  window,  resting  his  head  on  his  hand  and  let- 
ting the  night  breeze  cool  his  hot  forehead.  He  was 
forced  to  analyze  the  pain  his  mother's  attitude  toward 
Mary  caused  him.  Was  there  perhaps,  unacknowl- 
edged to  himself,  a  little  hope  gaining  lodgment  in 
his  secret  heart?  Had  he  been  trying  to  make  Mary, 
as  his  mother  had  said,  "of  his  own  generation"? 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  cricket,  Mary?" 
he  asked  her  next  morning  at  breakfast,  looking  up 
from  an  open  note  in  his  hand,  with  a  face  full  of 
indecision. 

Mary  suspended  operations  on  the  shell  of  an  egg, 
and  raised  expectant  eyes  to  his.  "No,"  she  said, 
"but  I  want  to." 

His  whole  face  brightened.  "They  want  me  to  go 
out  to-morrow  to  substitute  in  a  match  with  the 
'Merion.'  It  is  a  sort  of  trial  match,  as  we  are  both 
to  play  the  English  team  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  and  one 


"FORM"  AND   SUBSTANCE  173 

of  our  best  bowlers  is  taken  ill.  They  say  they  must 
have  me,  and  I  must  get  all  the  practice  I  can  between 
now  and  then." 

A  look  of  satisfaction  settled  over  Mrs.  Brown's 
face.  "You  surely  won't  refuse,  John,"  she  said 
quickly. 

"No,"  hesitatingly — "I  guess  not.  I  was  thinking, 
Mary.  I  told  George's  mother  and  sisters  that  I 
would  bring  you  to  call  on  them  some  day,  and  we 
might  go  this  afternoon  and  invite  one  of  them  to  go 
out  with  us  to  the  match  to-morrow  and  keep  you 
company  while  I  am  playing.  I  am  sure  they  would 
be  pleased." 

"Are  they  nice?"  Mary  asked  innocently,  peering 
down  into  her  egg.  (John  Patterson  had  been  well 
trained  in  the  matter  of  Mary's  tastes.  He  knew  her 
foreign  habits  had  disinclined  her  for  the  old-time  meat- 
and-fried-potato  breakfast  to  which  the  Brown  family 
were  used,  and  he  never  forgot  anything  that  concerned 
her.  Mrs.  Brown  had  ventured  no  remonstrance  when 
he  had  appeared  with  a  large  piece  of  honey  on  the 
day  before  Mary's  arrival,  and  had  told  her  with 
an  air  of  simple  finality  that  "Miss  Mary"  always 
ate  it.)  She  was  offended  with  Mary's  over-frank 
question,  the  more  so  that  she  thought  she  detected 
a  twinkle  in  John's  eyes  before  he  bent  them  on  his 
plate. 

"They  are  exceedingly  nice  ladylike  girls,"  she 
answered  tartly. 

Mary  looked  at  her  with  those  wide,  grave  eyes 
that  reminded  her  so  disagreeably  of  Dick.  The 
question  on  the  tip  of  the  girl's  tongue  stayed  there 


174  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

till  she  and  John  were  on  their  way  to  the  Raymonds' 
after  lunch. 

"How  old  are  they,  John?" 

"I  wouldn't  ask  them  for  the  world!"  He  turned 
to  her  with  a  bright,  amused  glance.  "But  my  memory 
is  good,  and  I  know  Miss  Emma  used  to  be  ten  years 
older  than  George,  and  Miss  Elsie  a  good  deal  younger. 
That  would  make  Miss  Emma  about  forty  now,  and 
I  suppose  Miss  Elsie  is  twenty-five  or  six." 

"Oh,  they're  grown-up  ladies!"  was  Mary's  dis- 
illusioned comment. 

In  the  old  days  Margaret  had  been  inclined  to 
tease  John  over  the  conquest  of  Miss  Emma  Ray- 
mond, and  had  always  been  properly  rebuked,  but 
John  was  not  wholly  unconscious  that  George's  older 
sister  had  a  regard  for  him  that  was  not  of  his  solicit- 
ing, and  that  he  certainly  did  nothing  to  encourage. 
It  was  years  now  since  he  had  thought  anything  about 
it  and  Miss  Emma's  middle-aged  primness  and  gentle- 
ness were  never  broken  through  by  any  behavior 
that  could  possibly  give  rise  to  comment.  Neverthe- 
less it  was  quite  true  that,  through  all  the  changing 
years,  that  secret  sentiment,  which  ought  long  ago 
to  have  died  of  malnutrition,  would  persist  in  living 
on  as  a  sad,  emaciated  little  inmate  of  Miss  Emma's 
kindly  heart,  always  thrust  into  corners  and  never 
presented  to  company. 

Mary  spent  a  rather  uneasy  twenty  minutes  among 
the  "cows  and  chickens"  of  George's  family  barn- 
yard, for  she  was  without  barn-yard  etiquette  of  any 
kind  and  their  volubility  left  her  speechless.  She  was 
little  used  to  women,  and  their  particular  type  (who 


"FORM"  AND   SUBSTANCE  175 

talked  a  great  deal  about  things  of  which  she  knew 
nothing,  asking  her  questions  to  which  they  fortu- 
nately seemed  to  expect  no  answers),  made  her 
register  a  vow  never  to  go  into  "society."  She  did 
not  know  that  the  Raymonds  were  not  at  all  fashion- 
able people  and  would  probably  have  been  much 
improved  by  a  larger  social  experience,  though  it  is 
to  be  doubted  whether  any  surface  polish  could  have 
made  them  other  than  the  kindly,  commonplace 
creatures  they  were.  Mary  had  no  suspicion  that  they 
were  shyer  of  her,  for  all  their  eloquence,  than  she  had 
ever  been  of  anyone.  She  only  knew  that  she  longed 
to  get  away.  John  knew  it  too,  and  broke  off  the 
conversation  he  was  trying  to  carry  on  with  Miss 
Emma,  to  say  that  he  thought  they  must  be  going. 
Mary  looked  at  Miss  Emma's  gentle  face  and  decided 
to  take  the  matter  of  the  invitation  into  her  own 
hands. 

"Have  you  asked  Miss  Emma  to  go  with  us  to  the 
cricket  to-morrow?"  she  asked  with  such  an  innocent 
face  that  John  was  baffled.  Had  she  misunderstood 
his  suggestion  about  "one"  of  George's  sisters  or  was 
this  intended  for  a  pointer?  The  invitation  was 
accepted  with  a  pleasure  that  was  evidently  too  strong 
to  find  expression  in  ordinary  words.  Mary  silently 
noted  the  fluttered  pink  on  Miss  Emma's  thin  cheeks, 
and  as  they  started  home  her  hand  stole  into  John's 
and  she  forgot  to  confess  her  coup  till  he  asked 
her. 

"Do  you  know  it  isn't  considered  good  form  to 
hold  hands  on  the  street?"  He  held  hers  tightly 
as  he  looked  laughingly  down  at  her. 


176  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"But  we  don't  care  anything  about  'form/  do  we?" 
She  returned  both  the  smile  and  pressure. 

"I'm  afraid  I  ought  to  try  to  make  you  care  a  little 
more,"  he  said  ruefully. 


"  Now,  Emma,  do  put  on  your  new  blue  foulard 
to-morrow.  It's  so  becoming,  and  foulards  don't  spot 
like  Indias  even  if  there  should  be  a  few  drops  of 
rain,"  Mrs.  Raymond  urged  with  her  most  contented 
purr.  (George  was  used  to  purring  in  genuine  house- 
cat  style,  albeit  his  boarding-school  metaphor  had 
been  drawn  from  a  barn-yard.) 

"  Catch  her!  "  Miss  Elsie  laughed  the  short,  high- 
pitched  laugh  that  had  decided  Mary's  choice  of  a 
companion  for  the  morrow.  "  If  there's  a  cloud  as 
big  as  my  hat  you'll  see  her  getting  off  in  her  old 
brown  grenadine  with  an  umbrella !  " 

But  from  her  shelter  behind  the  lace  curtains,  Miss 
Emma  was  watching  a  picture  on  the  street,  and 
never  heard  a  word. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
A  CRICKET  MATCH  AND  A  "LUCK-PENNY" 

THE  round  September  sun  seemed  struggling 
to  cast  his  beams  up  Arch  Street,  through 
the  river  mist  and  city  smoke,  for  the  express 
purpose  of  darting  them  in  at  a  certain  third-story 
window,  where  lay,  he  knew,  as  sweet  a  picture  as 
could  be  found  in  all  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
Quaker  City.  Balked  in  his  effort  to  bend  them 
by  so  much  as  the  fraction  of  an  inch,  he  threw  an 
angry  red  glare  over  the  white  frame  of  the  window, 
and  hung  there  in  impotent  fury.  The  picture  within 
was  a  good-humored  one,  and  opening  sleepy  eyes 
at  his  approach,  quickly  made  them  wider  and  sprang 
up.  She  drew  on  a  wrapper  (for  there  were  some 
conventions  that  she  did  regard)  and  going  straight 
toward  him,  leaned  a  little  forward  and  let  him  kiss 
her  happy  face  to  his  heart's  content.  Thus  molli- 
fied, his  red  countenance  soon  changed  and  he  beamed 
upon  her  like  the  lover  of  beauty  he  was.  'Tis  true 
he  beamed  with  even  added  warmth  upon  Miss 
Emma  Raymond's  equally  happy  but  much  less 
lovely  face,  when,  a  half-hour  later,  having  climbed 
the  intervening  roofs,  he  looked  full  in  at  her  eastern 
chamber  window. 

Did  John  have   second-sight   to  see  the  wooing 

12  (177) 


178  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

going  on  over  his  head,  or  did  his  quick  ear  perchance 
detect  the  light  tread  of  bare  feet  on  the  floor  above? 
His  mother,  from  her  bed,  heard  him  humming  an 
old,  familiar  air  as  he  emerged  from  his  bath;  and  just 
at  that  moment  it  formed  itself  into  words:  "That 
e'er  the  sun  shone  on,"  rang  out  in  his  low  baritone, 
and  then,  as  though  the  unexpected  sound  of  his 
own  voice  brought  sudden  self-consciousness,  the 
music  stopped.  Mrs.  Brown  smiled;  then  her  brows 
drew  together  and  she  sighed.  Singing  at  his  toilet 
was  one  of  John's  cheery  habits,  which  had  been 
growing  less  of  late  years.  If  the  sound  of  its  renewal 
was  as  sweet  to  her  as  the  sight  of  his  brighter,  more 
boyish  face,  the  recognized  cause  of  both  smote  on 
her  heart  and  made  it  contract  painfully.  If  she 
had  seen  the  little  party,  whom  George  had  joined, 
settle  itself,  a  few  hours  later,  in  the  middle  of  the 
grand-stand,  she  would  have  been  still  more  forcibly 
struck  with  the  change. 

"This  is  a  good  place,"  John  said.  "Here  you  are 
as  nearly  as  possible  back  of  the  wicket,  and  a  little 
out  of  the  glare,"  appraising  the  rolling  of  the  crease 
with  a  critical  eye. 

"It  doesn't  matter  where  we  sit  so  we  can  see  you 
play,"  Mary  said,  giving  voice  to  Miss  Emma's 
sentiments  with  a  simple  matter-of-factness  the  elder 
woman  could  not  help  envying.  John  left  them  almost 
immediately  to  get  ready  for  play,  for  Germantown 
was  to  go  first  to  the  bat  they  had  learned  on  enter- 
ing the  ground;  but  he  promised  to  be  back  soon, 
as  "his  services  were  not  likely  to  be  needed  till 
well  on  in  the  game." 


CRICKET  MATCH  AND  "LUCK-PENNY"    179 

"John  isn't  a  good  bat,"  George  explained  as  the 
tall  figure  disappeared  into  the  club-house.  "I 
mean,  he  isn't  steady;  they  can't  count  on  him. 
He's  great  if  he  gets  'set,'  and  he's  so  strong  it's  noth- 
ing to  him  to  send  a  ball  over  the  grand-stand,  let 
alone  the  ropes;  but  he's  apt  to  miscalculate  and  get 
caught  out,  especially  if  the  bowling  bothers  him. 
It's  bowling  they're  counting  on  him  for  to-day; 
he's  a  splendid  round-arm  bowler  when  he's  in 
practice." 

"I'm  afraid  I've  kept  him  from  practicing,  but 
he'll  have  some  chance  before  the  English  match." 
Mary  said  it  bravely  and  George  gave  her  an  approv- 
ing glance;  but  the  signal  for  clearing  the  ground 
changed  the  gloomy  current  of  her  thoughts.  For 
several  minutes  she  was  busy  watching  the  awkward 
movements  of  the  roller  horses,  with  their  great 
muffled  feet,  the  groups  of  stragglers  moving  off 
in  every  direction,  and  the  explosive  entrance  of  the 
visiting  team,  who  burst  from  the  club-house  like 
a  troop  of  boys  just  let  loose  from  school.  The  white- 
clad  figures  scattered  themselves  over  the  field, 
playing  at  leap-frog,  pitching  and  tossing  the  balls, 
and  going  through  an  endless  variety  of  antics  on  the 
way  to  their  appointed  places.  Mary  watched  the 
bowler  sending  furious  balls  at  the  undefended  wicket 
"to  get  his  hand  in, "  and  was  trying  to  imagine  John 
in  the  character  when  the  object  of  her  thoughts 
rejoined  them.  He  looked  a  new  person,  in  his  crick- 
eting flannels  with  heavy  leg-pads  and  blue  and  white 
striped  "blazer."  He  took  off  the  canvas  hat  with 
its  gay  band  as  he  came  up,  and  seated  himself  beside 


180  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

Miss  Emma;  and  something  in  Mary's  almost 
startled  glance  made  his  heart  beat  quicker.  She 
had  never  looked  at  him  before  with  that  half-shy 
scrutiny.  The  fact  was  that  he  appeared  full  ten 
years  younger  than  usual,  and  consequently  not  more 
than  his  real  age,  and  he  had  been  guilty  of  his  first 
act  of  vanity  (unless  we  except  the  incident  of  the 
trouser-creases)  and  had  bought  himself  a  tie  of  the 
color  of  his  coat,  which  became  him  well.  He  read 
the  success  of  his  venture  in  truth's  own  mirrors 
and  his  thin,  bronzed  cheeks  took  on  a  warmer  tone 
as  he  quietly  answered  Miss  Emma's  questions 
about  the  men  going  in  to  the  bat. 

"The  bowler  at  this  end  is  a  demon,"  he  said,  his 
eyes  intent  on  the  preparatory  gyrations  of  the  wiry 
little  person  in  question:  "His  balls  twist  right  in 
to  the  wicket  when  they  seem  heading  a  yard  off  it. 
Look  at  that!"  He  drew  in  his  breath  sharply  and 
half  rose  from  his  seat:  "Clean  bowled!"  he  gasped, 
sitting  heavily  down  again,  with  a  face  of  consterna- 
tion. "That's  one  of  our  very  best  bats.  I  can 
see  him  making  short  work  of  me!" 

"Bad  beginning,  good  ending,"  Miss  Emma  said 
with  a  little  purring  laugh  and  a  delicious  sense  of 
being  in  a  position  to  offer  consolation  to  John  on 
even  so  unimportant  a  matter  as  this  seemed  to  her. 
There  was  absolute  quiet  in  the  little  group  and  then 
a  general  rustle  of  satisfaction  as  the  next  man  took 
the  demon's  second  ball  successfully  arid  sent  a  third 
to  the  ropes.  The  satisfaction  was  short-lived, 
however,  for  after  a  timid  half-dozen  runs  had  been 
added  to  the  score,  the  new  man  sent  a  ball  straight 


CRICKET  MATCH  AND  "LUCK-PENNY"    181 

into  the  hands  of  a  jubilant  fielder.  Mary  saw  a 
little  blond  man  approaching  them  from  behind, 
and,  as  he  took  the  vacant  seat  back  of  John,  George 
whispered  to  her  that  that  was  the  captain  of  the 
German  town  team. 

"Good  Lord,  Johnny!"  he  groaned  as  he  sank 
down  harder  than  would  have  seemed  reasonably 
possible  to  his  small  bulk,  "that  man's  a  demon!" 

Mary  smiled  at  the  juvenile  title  for  her  dignified 
giant,  and  the  captain's  admiring  eyes  meeting  her's 
made  John's  hasty  introduction  almost  superfluous. 

"If  either  of  you  ladies  has  a  rabbit's  foot  or  any 
good  strong  charm,  now  is  your  time,"  the  little  man 
said  gravely.  "Please  do  your  level  best  to  brace 
up  Brown." 

"Oh,  I've  got  a  luck-penny  in  my  purse!"  Mary 
cried  with  delighted  recollection,  as  she  drew  forth 
a  pierced  sixpence  through  which  was  knotted  a  bit 
of  foreign-looking  string. 

"That'll  do  the  business!"  the  captain  said,  his 
laughing  eyes  withdrawn  from  the  field  for  the  mo- 
ment, but  only  for  the  moment.  "Look  at  Tommy 
Moran!"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  addressing  himself 
again  to  John.  "The  crittur's  got  him  all  tied  up 
in  a  knot!  Just  what  I  expected!"  as  a  dull  thud 
was  accompanied  by  an  attempt  on  Tommy's  part 
to  fall  over  his  own  legs,  and  the  ball  was  held  aloft 
by  the  challenging  wicket-keep.  "Leg  before  wicket; 
three  men  out  for  nine.  This  is  a  funeral!  John, 
you  go  next,  and  you've  got  to  stick,  with  that 
charm!"  He  gave  Mary  a  whimsical  smile  as  he 
rose  and  went  to  meet  the  crestfallen  Tommy. 


182  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  only  lengthen  the  procession," 
John  said  ruefully. 

There  was  a  long  silence  after  the  fifth  man  took 
his  place.  Ball  after  ball  was  bowled  and  not  a  run 
was  made. 

"I  do  wish  they  wouldn't  waste  so  much  time 
walking  around!"  Mary  said  fretfully.  "Just 
when  you  think  the  batter  may  be  going  to  do  some- 
thing, they  stop  playing  and  all  begin  to  change  places. 
What  do  they  do  it  for?  It's  dreadfully  tiresome!" 

George  doubled  up  with  enjoyment  of  the,  to  him, 
pertinent  criticism,  while  John  leaned  around  Miss 
Emma  and,  with  twinkling  eyes,  explained  the  mean- 
ing of  a  "maiden  over." 

"Was  that  five  maidens  or  six?"  George  asked 
gloomily  a  minute  later. 

"Six,"  was  the  sober  answer. 

A  sudden  ball  went  whizzing  up  in  the  air  to  Mary's 
delight;  but  the  sight  of  the  men's  anxious  faces 
checked  her  transports.  "Oh,  it's  caught!"  she 
said  mournfully. 

"It  certainly  is,"  George  answered  grimly. 

John  said  nothing,  but  rose  to  go. 

"Oh,  don't  forget  the  luck-penny!"  Mary  handed 
it  hurriedly  across  to  him.  "I  should  have  been 
ungrateful,"  he  said  laughing;  but  the  shine  in  his 
eyes  made  Miss  Emma  grave  for  a  while  and  caused 
her  to  reconsider  the  purely  fraternal,  or  rather  paternal, 
diagnosis  she  had  just  been  making  of  this  interest- 
ing case.  Miss  Emma  must  be  forgiven  if  she  made 
the  most  of  the  disparity  in  years. 

Mary  took  a  gold  sheath-pin  from  her  dress  and 


CRICKET  MATCH  AND  "LUCK-PENNY*'    183 

darted  after  him  regardless  of  the  amused  and  appre- 
ciative audience.  "Pin  it  in  your  pocket  with  that," 
she  said  breathlessly.  He  gave  her  a  brilliant  little 
smile  and  was  gone. 

"By  George!  he's  lucky!"  said  a  man  behind 
them  to  a  friend.  Then,  as  he  saw  more  interest 
in  his  companion's  face  than  the  circumstances 
seemed  to  warrant,  he  added  suddenly,  "You  know 
her?" 

"No"  (it  was  Mr.  Dave  Chandler  who  spoke), 
"but  I  saw  her  at  Beach  Haven,  and  heard  that  she 
was  an  orphan,  and  that  that  fellow — Brown? — is 
her  guardian." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  mind  taking  the  job  off  his  hands; 
she's  as  sweet  as  a  peach!" 

Mary,  quite  unconscious  of  the  comment  she  had 
excited,  was  eagerly  waiting  for  John  to  cross  the 
field  and  take  his  stand.  There  seemed  to  her  a 
very  unnecessary  amount  of  delay  before  he  finally 
stepped  forward  and  bent  his  tall  body  over  the  bat. 

"The  same  old  story,"  George  said  tensely,  "but 
I'm  glad  to  see  him  getting  his  bearings.  I  don't 
want  him  to  do  anything  rash." 

John  was  blocking  balls  cautiously,  and  then  there 
was  another  "over"  and  the  other  man  took  his 
turn  at  the  same  tedious  performance. 

"Oh,  I  do  wish  he  would  do  something  exciting!" 
Mary  said  in  a  pathetic  voice.  The  words  were 
hardly  spoken  when  there  was  a  sharp  sound,  and  a 
ball  rose  like  a  gun-shot  straight  over  the  grand- 
stand. The  applause  was  frantic  from  both  friends 
and  enemies. 


184  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"He  must  have  a  muscle  like  iron,"  Mr.  Chandler's 
companion  remarked.  "I  guess  I  won't  meddle 
much  with  his  ward.  I  wouldn't  care  to  come  into 
collision  with  him."  He  laughed  gayly.  Mr.  Chand- 
ler's handsome  face  wore  an  odd  little  smile. 
"Another,  I  declare!  No,  only  over  the  ropes. 
Look  at  the  girl !  Did  you  ever  see  anything  prettier 
than  her  excitement?  Whatever  she  gave  him  must 
have  been  the  ticket."  But  some  time  later  he  turned 
again  and  said  testily:  "See  here,  man,  look  at  the 
field  once  in  a  while!  I'm  sorry  I  called  your  atten- 
tion to  her." 

"Oh,  it's  my  luck-penny!"  Mary  exclaimed, 
while  the  interest  and  excitement  rose  to  boiling  point 
among  the  Germantown  sympathizers  and  the 
Merion  faces  grew  longer.  There  would  be  occasional 
lulls  when  nothing  happened,  but  no  one  had  time 
to  feel  bored  again  that  morning.  One  man  after 
another  went  in  and  out,  making  creditable  scores 
after  the  bowlers  were  changed  (on  John's  running 
up  a  rapid  twenty-five) ;  but  still  he  stuck  to  his  post. 
"He's  all  right  now,"  George  said,  looking  into  Mary's 
sparkling  eyes.  "He's  good  for  a  hundred!" 

He  proved  a  true  prophet,  for  when  the  last  man 
was  caught  out  at  a  quarter  past  one,  just  in  time 
for  the  hungry  spectators,  John  had  "carried  his  bat" 
for  102. 

"They'd  like  to  carry  him  off  the  field,  if  he  wasn't 
rather  too  much  of  a  good  thing,"  George  said,  cast- 
ing a  furtive  glance  at  his  sister's  flushed  and  beam- 
ing face  and  dropping  his  eyes  meditatively  to  his 
shoes. 


CRICKET  MATCH  AND  "LUCK-PENNY"    185 

John  soon  joined  them,  having  run  a  gauntlet  of 
handshakes  and  slaps  on  the  back,  and  looking 
flushed,  too,  but  more  happy  than  triumphant. 

"If  everybody's  as  hungry  as  I  am,  there  won't 
be  enough  lunch  to  go  round,"  he  said,  laughingly 
parrying  the  congratulations  showered  upon  him, 
and  looking  into  Mary's  radiant  face.  He  saw  he 
had  gained  more  than  a  cricket  match. 

Have  you  ever  been  in  your  "teens,"  and  seen 
a  losing  game  won  on  the  cricket,  or  football,  or 
baseball  fields  by  the  man  who  was  your  particular 
property?  If  so,  you  must  agree  that  the  President 
of  the  United  States  is  a  very  unimportant  person 
beside  the  man  who  "carries  his  bat"  for  a  hundred. 
John  had  won  a  new  place  in  Mary's  esteem  if  not 
in  her  heart.  To  be  our  best-beloved  friend  is  one 
thing;  to  be  a  popular  hero  at  the  same  time  is 
another. 

The  appetites  were  all  good,  but  John  Patterson's 
lunch  basket  was  equal  to  the  test,  and  he  won  his 
laurels  too. 

John's  bowling  proved  much  less  successful  than 
usual,  for  he  was  quite  out  of  practice,  and  the  after- 
noon would  have  been  disappointing  to  Mary  but 
for  the  final  victory.  Just  before  the  end  a  little 
incident  left  its  impress  on  her  mind.  She  saw  the 
gentleman  she  had  seen  at  Beach  Haven,  and  whose 
name  she  remembered,  pass  in  front  of  her  with  a 
lady.  (They  had  moved  their  seats  after  lunch 
and  were  close  to  the  front  aisle.)  He  looked  at  Mary 
with  the  same  perfectly  well-bred  but  very  expressive 
glance  that  she  had  seen  in  his  eyes  before,  and  again 


186  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

she  colored  warmly  and  cast  down  her  own,  without 
knowing  why.  Someone  in  the  front  row  stopped 
the  lady  to  speak  to  her  and  Mary  had  a  good  chance 
to  look  at  her,  for  Mr.  Chandler  turned  his  attention 
to  the  field,  or  appeared  to  do  so.  His  companion 
was  a  woman  of  from  twenty  to  twenty-five,  dressed 
quite  simply  in  a  white  linen  suit  with  a  very  becom- 
ing hat  of  dark  scarlet  straw,  trimmed  with  field- 
poppies  and  grasses,  and  a  parasol  to  match.  Mary 
recognized  the  quiet  elegance  of  the  toilet,  but  would 
have  been  much  astonished  had  she  been  told  its 
cost.  The  lady  was  tall  and  very  slender,  without 
being  thin.  She  had  a  willowy  ease  and  grace  of 
manner  that  were  most  engaging,  and  a  charming 
smile  that  would  have  been  mocking  but  for  the  great 
sweetness  of  the  dark  eyes.  Her  hair  was  black, 
of  a  fine,  silky  texture  that,  like  everything  else 
about  her,  bespoke  good  breeding,  and  Mary  would 
have  thought  her  beautiful  but  for  the  almost  sickly 
pallor  of  her  complexion.  So  attracted  was  she  that 
she  quite  forgot  Mr.  Chandler,  until  she  found  that 
he  had  turned,  and  that  his  eyes  were  again  upon 
her.  Then  they  moved  away. 

The  lady  had  not  noticed  them ;  but  as  Mary  turned 
to  George  to  ask  if  he  knew  who  she  was,  she  saw  that 
he  was  very  white  and  that  his  eyes,  which  were 
following  the  handsome  couple,  had  a  strange  look 
as  of  pain. 

"George,  wasn't  that  Miss  Caroline  Hutchinson?" 
Miss  Emma  asked,  leaning  forward  to  speak  to  him 
across  Mary.  His  face  regained  its  wonted  expres- 
sion as  he  answered  her  in  the  affirmative;  but  he 


CRICKET  MATCH  AND  "LUCK-PENNY"    187 

was  very  grave  all  the  way  home,  except  when  he 
roused  himself  from  time  to  time  to  take  part  in  the 
brisk  conversation  carried  on  by  the  others.  Mary 
saw  John's  eyes  rest  on  him  occasionally  with  a  ques- 
tioning gravity. 

"John,  who  is  Miss  Caroline  Hutchinson?"  she 
asked  as  soon  as  the  other  two  were  out  of  hearing. 

"I  don't  know.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  saw  her  at  the  match  and  I  liked  her  looks  so 
much."  She  spoke  with  a  reservation;  but,  as  John 
continued  to  look  inquiringly  at  her,  the  context 
came  out,  even  to  the  mention  of  Mr.  Chandler's 
name  too.  John  looked  interested  and  grave.  "I 
don't  go  about  enough  to  know  who  people  are, 
and  I  know  very  few  of  George's  friends  and 
acquaintances,"  he  said.  (George  was  a  so- 
ciety favorite,  in  spite  of  his  unfashionable  up- 
bringing.) John  was  recalling  his  friend's  face, 
and  Mr.  Chandler  was  a  matter  of  absolute  indiffer- 
ence to  him. 

He  had  unpinned  the  sixpence  and  handed  it 
back  to  Mary  before  changing  his  flannels,  expressing 
his  gratitude  in  comic  fashion,  but  regretting  that 
its  influence  had  not  lasted  out  the  game.  "Oh, 
I  wanted  you  to  keep  it,"  she  had  answered,  coloring, 
"for  luck  and  for  a  keepsake.  If  it  helps  for  half  a 
game,  that's  something." 

"It's  a  very  great  deal!"  he  said,  laughing  and  offer- 
ing no  further  thanks,  but  she  saw  that  she  had 
pleased  him  very  much  by  the  little  gift.  She  was 
so  proud  of  him,  and  so  fond  of  him,  that  there  were 
two  exceedingly  happy  people  at  Mrs.  Brown's  din- 


188  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

ner-table  that  evening,  while  mistress,  man  and  maid 
shared  in  the  satisfaction  over  the  day's  event. 

For  long  years  Mrs.  Brown  had  been  used  to 
John's  habit  of  easy  chat  with  John  Patterson  dur- 
ing meals,  but  to  find  Mary  indulging  in  "  familiari- 
ties with  the  waiter  man  "  had  given  an  unpleasant 
jar  to  her  "sense  of  fitness."  "John  Patterson  would 
never  take  advantage  of  anyone,"  but  that  did  not 
alter  the  impropriety  on  Mary's  part.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  Mary  knew  by  intuition  what  she 
herself  could  only  find  out  by  years  of  experience. 

To-night,  however,  she  even  smiled  indulgently 
when  the  girl  lifted  a  merry  face  as  her  soup  plate 
was  set  before  her  and  said  affectionately — there 
really  was  no  other  word  to  describe  it — : 

:<  John,  your  lunch  was  so  good,  and  we  were  all 
so  hungry,  I  guess  when  you  looked  in  the  basket 
to-night  you  felt  like  the  man  who  took  up  the  col- 
lection and  was  glad  to  get  his  hat  back." 

Mrs.  Brown  smiled  because  she  was  in  her  most 
unbending  frame  of  mind.  As  for  the  old  story, 
she  never  could  see  any  joke  in  it.  "  Whoever 
heard  of  a  man  losing  his  hat  in  taking  up  a  col- 
lection! " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"IT'S  No  USE" 

HOW  strange  it  seemed  to  John  to  be  sitting 
again  in  the  old,  familiar  Holy  Trinity  pew 
with  his  mother!  Had  the  whole  church 
and  service  altered,  or  was  it  all  the  effect  of  the  girl- 
ish presence  between  Mrs.  Brown  and  himself?  He 
looked  back  upon  his  old  self  as  though  it  had  been 
someone  else  who  had  sat  in  that  spot  year  after  year. 

The  rector  was  away  and  the  pulpit  was  occupied, 
on  this  particular  Sunday,  by  a  visiting  clergyman 
from  Chicago.  He  was  a  handsome  man,  with  a 
thoroughbred  face,  a  commanding  figure  and  a  rich 
voice  that  betokened  long  culture;  while  his  sermon 
gave  evidence  of  the  student  as  well  as  the  devotee. 
It  was  plain  to  see  that  the  impression  he  was  making 
on  the  small  congregation  was  a  very  favorable  one; 
but,  again,  that  odd  feeling  came  over  John  that  the 
John  Brown  who  sat  there  six  months  ago  would 
have  listened  to  him  quite  differently;  that  something 
had  vitally,  fundamentally  changed  the  John  Brown 
of  the  present. 

Before  the  sermon  Mary  had  drawn  off  her  gloves, 
oblivious  of  the  critical  glance  from  Mrs.  Brown's 
observing  eyes,  and  had  slipped  them  into  her  pocket. 
She  was  sitting  with  her  ringless,  sunburned  hands 

(189) 


190  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

(they  were  well  formed,  but  not  small)  folded  in  her 
lap,  in  a  way  that  John  knew  well  and  regarded  as  an 
inheritance  from  her  Quaker  forebears.  He  had  seen 
his  mother's  disapproving  look  and  felt  a  strong 
inclination  to  cover  the  brown  hands  with  his  bigger, 
browner  one.  The  old  John  Brown  had  had  no  such 
impulses;  had  never  felt  this  warm,  irresistible  rush 
of  tenderness.  As  usual,  she  was  drinking  in  every 
word  of  the  sermon,  but  to-day  it  was  a  very  different 
one  from  any  that  she  had  heard  at  Beach  Haven,  and 
Beach  Haven  covered  most  of  her  church  experience. 
The  minister  was  speaking,  in  his  delightful,  sym- 
pathetic voice,  of  the,  great  legacy  of  the  historic 
Church;  of  that  precious  transfer  of  the  priestly 
gift,  through  the  miraculous  "laying  on  of  hands;" 
of  the  perfect,  changeless  nature  of  the  truth  that  had 
come  down  all  the  Christian  centuries  in  the  wondrous 
words  of  the  Creed.  One  perfectly  rounded  period 
followed  another.  His  voice  trembled  with  feeling 
when  he  spoke  of  the  irreverent  suggestion  of  alter- 
ing one  word  in  the  great  "Credo"  which  had  come 
from  the  hands  of  the  Fathers.  Surely  they  had 
known  how  to  interpret  their  Lord's  belief  and  teach- 
ing as  no  most  gifted  modern  could  ever  know.  He 
urged  his  hearers,  with  real  passion,  not  to  be  led  to 
believe  that  they  were  free  even  to  interpret  its 
meaning  differently  to  themselves.  "That  license 
of  interpretation  of  the  great  Articles  of  the  Christian 
faith  was  one  of  the  most  insidious  wiles  of  the  Devil 
to  undermine  the  purity  of  the  'Faith  once  delivered 
to  the  saints.'  Truth  was  the  same  in  Athanasius' 
time  as  it  is  to-day,"  he  declared.  "  What  Athanasius 


"IT'S  NO  USE"  191 

meant  we  must  mean  if  we  would  not  be  guilty  of 
imposture." 

Whatever  the  old  John  Brown  might  have  felt, 
the  present  John  knew  that  he  was  hearing  the  elo- 
quent sermon  through  the  ears  of  another;  feeling 
it  through  another;  and  that  each  thought  that  formed 
itself  behind  that  white  forehead  reached  him  uner- 
ringly by  some  process  surer  than  the  newly-adopted 
telephone,  but  known  only  to  the  great  Maker  of 
spiritual  telephones. 

She  never  raised  her  eyes  to  him  to-day;  he  missed 
that  exquisite  little  thrill  for  which  he  had  learned 
to  wait.  Mrs.  Brown  politely  forestalled  any  idea 
of  his  sharing  his  hymn-book  with  her,  as  he  had 
always  done,  by  handing  her  one  each  time,  opened 
at  the  proper  place.  Mary  did  not  sing  at  all  and  she 
missed  something  in  John's  voice.  He  seemed  to 
be  slipping  away  from  her  further  and  further,  and 
something  choked  her. 

"That  was  a  wonderfully  fine  sermon,  John," 
Mrs.  Brown  said  as  they  started  along  Rittenhouse 
Square,  Mary  still  between  them  and  still  gloveless. 

"I  didn't  like  it  at  all!"  Mary  said,  in  a  voice 
which,  without  intentional  impertinence,  carried 
a  sufficiently  emphatic  contradiction. 

John  winced,  and  colored  hotly.  His  mother's 
lips  curled  with  an  expression  bordering  on  triumph 
as  she  noted  his  trouble.  She  went  on  without  pay- 
ing the  least  attention  to  the  uncalled-for  interrup- 
tion. "Who  is  he?  I  don't  know  when  I  have  heard 
anyone  who  impressed  me  as  so  cultivated  and 
refined  and  with  such  an  earnest  spirituality." 


192  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

John  saw  Mary's  face  flame  and  her  lips  tremble. 
She  suddenly  put  her  hand  into  his  and  he  under- 
stood that  it  was  more  in  regret  for  her  impulsive 
rudeness  than  in  solicitation  of  his  championship. 
He  felt  it  a  misplaced  apology,  however,  and  he  saw 
his  mother's  lips  tighten  warningly.  Holding  the 
hand  in  a  firm  clasp,  he  tried  to  answer  Mrs.  Brown's 
question  and  comment,  but  she  was  too  much  vexed 
to  heed  him.  "Mary,"  she  said  suddenly,  "even 
children  wear  gloves  in  the  city,  especially  on  Sunday." 

It  was  John's  lips  that  quivered  now.  Mary's 
right  hand  went  to  her  pocket  without  a  word,  but 
he  would  not  at  once  loose  the  left.  His  spiritual 
telephone  was  to  carry  back  a  message,  and  all  that 
animal  magnetism  could  do  to  further  it  the  palm 
and  fingers  of  his  strong  hand  did.  "Nothing  you 
can  ever  say  or  do  will  make  any  difference  with  me," 
it  said,  and  Mary  read  the  message  aright,  but  it 
only  made  her  sorrier  and  more  humble;  it  roused 
the  mettle  in  her,  and  as  he  released  her  hand,  she 
put  the  gloves  on  with  a  swelling  heart  and  a  resolve 
not  to  offend  again.  She  little  knew  how  quickly 
she  was  to  yield  to  temptation  and  with  what  con- 
sequences. 

"Mrs.  Brown,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  without 
looking  up,  "I  didn't  mean  to  be  impolite.  Will 
you  excuse  me?"  The  direct  sincerity  and  sweetness 
of  the  appeal  did  what  soft  answers  are  proverbially 
said  to  do.  Mrs.  Brown  felt  some  shame  for  her 
own  part  and  said  hastily:  "Why,  certainly,  Mary, 
it  was  of  no  consequence.  I  shall  never  think  of  it." 
The  fact  of  childish  conceit  differing  with  her  was  a 


"IT'S   NO  USE"  193 

trifle  to  her  and  it  might  help  to  disillusion  John. 
But  she  owned  that  "the  girl  had  a  very  nice  dispo- 
sition," and  had  "only  been  ill  trained." 

With  John  it  was  far  otherwise;  and,  gratified  as 
he  was  at  Mary's  apology  and  the  more  friendly 
conversation  that  followed  it,  his  heart  was  weighted 
with  a  solemn  portent.  His  was  indeed  to  be  "a 
strait  betwixt  two."  It  was  a  cross-roads  that  made 
him  dizzy  and  uncertain  where  to  turn  or  to  what 
stone  wall  of  incompatibility  any  road  might  lead. 
He  knew  better  than  to  attribute  Mary's  remark 
to  childish  conceit.  The  rude  expression  of  opinion 
had  been  only  the  result  of  her  frank  discussions  with 
her  father,  but  the  thought  that  lay  behind  was  indic- 
ative of  the  warp  of  her  whole  nature.  Would  he 
wish  to  see  it  altered  for  the  sake  of — for  the  sake 
of  what? 

As  he  handed  her  into  the  Sixteenth  Street  car 
his  eyes  met  hers  fully.  Neither  smiled  and  there 
was  something  deeper  and  stronger  than  tenderness 
or  approval  in  his  grave,  steady  look. 

After  the  Sunday  midday  dinner  was  over,  Mrs. 
Brown  announced  her  intention  of  taking  a  nap  and 
later  paying  a  visit  to  a  sick  neighbor  instead  of  going 
to  afternoon  service.  Mary  looked  inquiringly, 
expectantly,  at  John.  "What  do  you  want  to  do?" 
he  asked  smiling,  as  his  mother  left  the  room. 

"I  want  you  to  talk  to  me — about  the  Prayer-book; 
about  the  Creeds.  Will  you?  We  can  go  out  in 
your  garden." 

He  assented,  but  with  a  look  that  suggested  a 
painful  operation  which  no  doubt  would  better  be 


194  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

performed  at  once.  "I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  a  broken 
reed,  though,"  he  said  sadly. 

There  was  a  long  silence  after  they  had  seated 
themselves  side  by  side  on  the  broad  bench.  Mary 
had  the  old  English  book  in  her  hands  and  was  turn- 
ing the  leaves,  but  John  saw  that  there  was  no  method 
in  her  apparent  search;  she  was  only  finding  words 
to  express  some  feeling  that  was  uppermost  in  her 
mind.  He  had  no  wish  to  hurry  her.  He,  too, 
wanted  time;  and  the  short,  wordless  prayer  for 
guidance  came  from  a  very  full  heart.  He  was  not 
looking  at  Mary,  though  he  saw  each  movement 
of  her  nervous  fingers.  At  last  she  turned  to  him 
and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  and  that 
her  lips  were  quivering  painfully;  she  tried  to  steady 
them. 

"  John,  I  am  afraid  it's  no  use!" 

"No  use."  He  repeated  the  two  words  dully, 
but  he  thought  he  understood. 

"I  feel  sure  I  can  never  believe  what  the  Creeds 
say,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  make  them  mean 
something  else,  even  if  it  is  right  to  try."  John 
felt  that  it  was  no  longer  a  child  that  was  asking 
his  help.  There  was  an  intensity  in  her  face  that 
no  child's  face  ever  wore.  "I  have  tried  so  hard 
to  believe  them — because  of  you — and  it  seems  as 
though  it  ought  to  be  very  easy,  when  I  know  so 
little,  to  believe  what  you  believe  and  what  Mr. 
Brooks  believes  and  what  so  many  wise,  good  people 
have  believed.  Father  said  it  didn't  matter  to  him 
whether  the  people  he  loved  had  the  same  belief  he 
had  or  not;  but  it  matters  a  great  deal  to  me.  I 


"IT'S  NO  USE"  195 

would  like  to  belong  to  something,  but  I  think  I 
could  never  be  happy  if  I  belonged  to  anything  dif- 
ferent from  you." 

John  looked  at  her  with  deep  solemnity.  "Where 
are  the  difficulties?"  he  asked  at  length. 

I  think  I  have  said  before  that  John's  voice  was  his 
one  beautiful  possession — no,  not  his  only  one;  for 
we  remember  that  Mary  was  not  alone  in  admiring 
his  hands.  But  his  voice,  which  had  a  very  different 
beauty  from  that  of  the  visiting  clergyman  of  that 
morning,  had  it  not  so  much  by  reason  of  some  happy 
adjustment  of  the  vocal  chords,  perhaps,  as  because 
of  a  power  of  adaptation  to  the  thought  behind  it — 
the  gift  of  fitting  the  gamut  of  tones  with  perfect 
fidelity  to  every  shade  of  feeling,  from  indignation 
or  scorn  to  tenderness,  sympathy  or  humor. 

"I  love  to  hear  you  say  'why?'  John,"  Mary 
had  once  said  to  him.  "It  sounds  as  though  you 
wanted  so  much  to  know  the  reason  and  would  be 
so  sure  to  understand." 

"I  do  want  very  much  to  know  all  your  reasons," 
he  had  answered  with  a  very  crooked  little  smile 
of  gratified  surprise.  His  quiet  question  now  carried 
with  it  the  most  ardent  wish  to  know  and  the  most 
complete  promise  of  sympathy  and  understanding. 

Mary  opened  the  book  without  any  uncertainty, 
now,  as  to  the  place,  and  read  the  beautiful,  solemn, 
opening  words  of  the  great  confession:  "I  believe 
in  one  God  the  Father  Almighty,  Maker  of  heaven 
and  earth:  And  in  Jesus  Christ  his  only  Son  our 
Lord:" — Was  she  going  straight  through  it?  he  won- 
dered with  a  curious  tremor.  She  paused,  and 


196  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

raised  her  eyes.  "What  do  you  mean  by  'only  Son?' 
I  always  think  of  God  as  a  person;  a  Heavenly  Father, 
who  feels  sorry  when  I  am  unhappy  or  wrong  and 
pleased  when  I  am  good;  but  do  you  believe  He  is 
the  kind  of  person  who  could  have  real  children?" 

The  pure,  earnest  face  looking  up  to  his  made  the 
little  thrill  of  consciousness  in  John's  heart  slink 
shamed  away.  This  was  not  the  young  girl  touching 
on  an  unused  subject  with  the  man  who  loved  her; 
but  the  eager,  ardent  soul  turning  to  a  kindred  soul 
for  help  and  sympathy. 

"No,  no,"  he  said  hurriedly. 

"Father  told  me  that  God  was  a  Spirit  and  we  were 
all  His  spiritual  children;  and  Christ  could  not  be 
His  Son  any  differently.  He  was  only  just  full  of 
God,  so  he  could  not  sin,  and  nobody  else  ever  has 
been." 

"Your  father  probably  did  not  believe  in  the  mir- 
acle of  his  birth?" 

Mary  only  shook  her  head.  "Father  said  it  might 
be  we  did  not  understand  all  the  possibilities  of  nat- 
ural laws,  but  it  ought  not  to  be  necessary." 

Dick  had  indeed  made  a  mental  companion  of  the 
child,  John  thought,  and  not  in  vain. 

"It  is  hard  for  me  to  explain  just  what  I  mean  by 
'only  Son,'"  he  said;  "for  while  I  do  believe  in  the 
miracle,  because  of  the  Gospel  record  of  it,  I  think 
I  understand  your  father's  point  and  agree  with  it. 
But  Jesus  was  absolutely  unique  and  he  made  many 
declarations  about  himself  that  no  mere  man  would 
seem  justified  in  making:  'No  man  cometh  unto 
the  Father  but  by  me;'  'before  Abraham  was  I  am; 


"IT'S  NO  USE"  197 

'I  am  the  Vine;  ye  are  the  branches.'  There  are  so 
many  such  expressions  in  the  Gospels,  while  the 
greatest  of  all  the  prophets  said  that  'all  his  right- 
eousness was  as  filthy  rags.'  Then  Christ  gave  us 
the  parable  of  the  householder  who  sent  his  servants 
first,  and  then  his  son,  whom  they  killed.  St.  Paul 
said,  'In  the  fullness  of  time,  God  sent  his  Son' — to 
be  sure  the  phrase  'made  under  the  law,'  might  seem 
to  contradict  the  theory  of  miracle."  The  idea  had 
evidently  just  occurred  to  him. 

Mary  was  drinking  in  every  word,  but  said  noth- 
ing. 

"It  is  a  great  mystery,  but  Jesus  was  surely  con- 
scious of  some  power  and  mission  that  no  one  else 
has  ever  been  conscious  of.  St.  Paul — or  whoever 
wrote  the  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews" — he  smiled  down 
into  her  deeply  thoughtful  face  as  he  referred  to  her 
Beach  Haven  lessons  in  Criticism — "says  that  'God, 
who,  at  sundry  times,  and  in  divers  manners,  spake 
by  the  prophets/  has  now  spoken  'by  His  Son,  whom 
He  hath  appointed  heir  of  all  things;  by  whom,  also, 
He  made  the  worlds.'  Did  your  father  teach  you  that 
Jesus  died,  and  was  buried,  and  that  that  was  the 
end  of  his  ministry?" 

"No;  Father  said  he  didn't  want  to  teach  me  about 
the  Resurrection,  because  he  didn't  know  just  what 
he  believed  himself,  except  that  no  flesh  can  rise 
again.  He  said  flesh  was  not  eternal,  because  none 
of  us  was  just  the  same  this  year  as  last;  he  was  get- 
ting thinner  and  sicker" — her  eyes  filled  at  the  rec- 
ollection— "and  I  was  growing  all  the  time;  but  he 
believed  all  the  spiritual  part  of  Jesus,  which  he  called 


198  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

the  Christ,  was  alive  and  near  us  all  now,  and  we 
could  speak  to  him." 

"I  do  not  believe  in  the  resurrection  of  the  actual 
flesh,  either,  but  I  only  take  that  passage  in  the  Creed 
to  mean  the  continuation  of  our  personalities,  through 
a  spiritual  body,  in  such  a  way  that  we  shall  recog- 
nize each  other  in  the  next  world." 

"But  in  my  book  it  says  'flesh.'  If  the  Americans 
could  change  it  to  'body/  why  couldn't  we  change 
some  of  the  other  words  now,  so  they  would  mean 
what  we  really  think?" 

A  flash  of  amusement  crossed  the  tender  gravity 
of  John's  face.  "People  would  never  all  mean  the 
same  thing,  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "and  the  great 
purpose  of  creeds  and  constitutions  is  to  keep  stabil- 
ity and  unity  in  an  organization  for  long  periods 
of  time.  If  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States 
had  been  changed  every  time  a  popular  wave  of 
feeling  demanded  it,  we  should  not  be  so  strong  a 
nation  as  we  are;  and  the  same  thing  is  true  of  creeds. 
But  I  do  believe,  when  a  Constitution  ceases  to 
express  the  people's  will  or  when  a  creed  is  definitely 
outgrown — when  very  few  hold  its  literal,  original 
meaning — it  should  be  revised  (with  the  greatest 
care)  in  spite  of  all  we  heard  this  morning  to  the 
contrary."  He  had  been  talking  as  man  to  man, 
but  his  color  rose  at  the  remembrance  of  the  little 
scene  that  had  followed  the  sermon.  His  steadfast 
eyes  repeated  the  assurance  of  the  morning. 

Mary's  eyes  fell  for  a  moment;  when  she  lifted  them 
there  was  a  spark  of  mischief  showing.  "I  am  sure 
those  old  men  who  made  the  frescos  and  sculptures 


"IT'S   NO  USE"  199 

believed  the  Creed  literally,"  she  said.  "They 
painted  Jesus  going  down  into  a  place  where  people 
were  in  torment,  and  meeting  Adam  and  Eve  and 
other  people  who  were  sinners;  and  I  have  seen 
men  and  women  rising  up  out  of  their  graves,  lifting 
the  lids  as  they  came;  and  Michael  is  always  stand- 
ing blowing  a  trumpet." 

John  smiled.  "I  wonder  how  the  minister  this 
morning  would  defend  his  position  against  you," 
he  said.  Then  his  face  resumed  its  former  gravity. 
"I  have  not  studied  these  matters  as  much  as  I 
should,  but  if  men  of  his  temper  were  the  authori- 
tative voice  of  the  Episcopal  Church  I  should  be 
forced  to  withdraw  from  it.  Luckily  they  are  not. 
I  think  God  will  understand  if  I  interpret  the  Creed 
to  conform  with  what  I  believe  to  be  the  truth, 
though  I  know  it  is  not  what  the  men  meant  who 
made  it;  but  I  could  not  ask  you  to  take  my  inter- 
pretation and  I  am  afraid  it  would  be  impossible 
for  you  if  I  did." 

Two  pairs  of  grave,  wistful  eyes  carried  on  the 
conversation  without  the  help  of  words.  Mary's 
were  the  first  to  droop.  She  turned  them  again  to 
the  open  page  of  her  book. 

"Where  did  they  think  Heaven  was  when  Christ 
went  up  and  sat  down  on  God's  right  hand?"  she 
said  after  another  long  pause. 

"They  thought  what  people  did  think  before 
Copernicus;  that  the  earth  was  stationary,  and  the 
firmament  a  solid  arch  above  it;  and  somewhere 
lifted  up  on  high,  God  sat  on  a  great  white  throne 
to  regulate  and  judge  the  world  that  He  had  made. 


200  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

To  me,  that  phrase  of  the  Creed  just  means  that 
Christ,  after  having  tasted  human  life  and  death, 
is  a  glorified  Spirit  still,  at  God's  right  hand;  that 
is,  the  great  spiritual  force  to  carry  out  God's  will 
for  His  people;  to  save  them  and  sustain  them,  and 
to  judge  them.  I  believe  Christ  comes  every  day 
'to  judge  both  the  quick  and  the  dead/  though  it 
seems  as  if  Jesus  himself  did  not  understand  his 
'Second  Coming'  as  I  do." 

"Why,  John,  you  think  almost  like  Father,  really," 
Mary  answered  earnestly.  "I  wish  I  could  say 
those  things,  for  I  think  I  believe  them  that  way; 
but  there  is  something  here,"  pressing  her  clasped 
hands  to  her  bosom  with  unconscious  eloquence, 
"that  won't  let  me." 

"You  are  a  Friend,  Mary,"  he  said  gently.  "You 
follow  the  'Inward  Light/  and  it  is  all  you  need. 
I  think  it  is  all  we,  any  of  us,  need." 

"Oh,  but  I  love  to  go  to  church,  and  I  love  the 
service  and  the  hymns.  I  would  rather  hear  you 
sing  hymns  than  any  music  I  ever  heard!"  (No 
wonder  the  traitorous  blood  rose  to  John's  forehead.) 
"And  I  want  to  go  with  you  to  Communion.  Miss 
Newlin  took  me  once,  but  I  had  to  sit  back  by  my- 
self. I  am  sure  I  could  say  all  that  service.  'I 
give  myself;  my  soul  and  body/  "  she  repeated  the 
words  in  a  hushed  voice.  "Don't  you  think  they 
would  ever  let  anyone  say  that  instead  of  saying  they 
believed  in  Jesus  being  'Very  God  of  Very  God, 
begotten,  not  made'?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  John  said  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  "but  the  Church  is  the  poorer  for  its  hedges." 


"IT'S  NO  USE"  201 

"If  I  said  the  Creed  because  I  believe,  anything 
you  think  must  be  right?"  she  ventured  timidly. 

"No,  no,"  he  exclaimed  quickly,  almost  sternly. 

"I  might  be  offending  against  the  Holy  Spirit  in 
me,  and  God  would  not  forgive  me.  The  Bible 
says  that  is  the  only  sin  that  never  can  be  forgiven 
in  Heaven  or  earth." 

"Mary,"  he  answered  solemnly,  "I  love  my  Church, 
and  it  would  make  me  very  happy  to  have  you  belong 
to  it  too,  to  have  you  take  the  Communion  with  me; 
but  I  wouldn't  influence  you  against  your  inward 
promptings  for  all  the  happiness  in  the  world;  not 
to  add  a  million  communicants  to  the  Episcopal 
Church.  Many  people  would  think  me  overstrained 
and  foolish,  I  suppose,"  he  added  hi  a  quieter  voice, 
as  if  almost  ashamed  of  his  outburst. 

"And  you  would  rather  have  me  go  to  church  with 
you  always,  when  I  can,  and  still  just  be  a  Friend? 
We  shall  always  know  we  understand  each  other, 
sha'n't  we?  And  believe  almost  exactly  alike  in 
spite  of  all  the  creeds  and  catechisms?" 

"The  seat  by  me  will  always  be  your  seat,  whether 
you  are  there  or  not,  and  I  shall  always  be  worship- 
ing with  you  before  God,  however  far  we  may  be 
apart  or  whatever  kind  of  service  we  may  be  going 
through."  He  spoke  with  a  concentrated  intensity 
of  feeling  that  was  akin  to  passion. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MARY  FAILS  TO  KEEP  HER  RESOLUTION 

DEAR,   DARLINGEST  CATHARINE: 
I  am  all  by  myself  till  lunch  tifne,  and  I  told  John 
I  would  write  a  long  letter  to  you.     He  always  is  out 
in  the  morning  and  Mrs.  Brown  is  going  to  meet  him 
for  some  business  to-day. 

He  asked  me  to  send  you  his  love,  and  he  made  me  promise 
to  write  here  at  his  desk,  and  he  filled  the  inkstand  and  arranged 
things  for  me;  but  I  don't  like  to.  I  am  only  doing  it  because  I 
saw  it  would  hurt  his  feelings  if  I  didn't;  but  I  never  feel  comfor- 
table in  this  "den,"  as  they  call  it,  since  I  found  out  Mrs.  Brown 
doesn't  like  me  to  be  here.  I  don't  even  feel  quite  easy  when 
John  is  with  me;  but  then  he  says  it  is  his  very  own  room,  and 
he  wants  me,  so  I  do  come  and  sit  while  he  is  working;  because, 
of  course,  he  ought  to  have  what  he  wants,  too,  and  we  haven't 
many  more  days  to  be  together. 

A  tear-blot  emphasized  the  sentence,  though  Mary 
went  on  steadily. 

But  I  should  like  Mrs.  Brown  to  like  me,  and  I  know  she  doesn't 
and  it  makes  me  sorry  all  the  time.  I  never  tried  to  make  any- 
body like  me  before;  I  always  thought  they  did,  or  else  I  didn't 
care.  But  you  see  this  is  her  house,  too,  and  if  she  doesn't 
want  to  have  me,  why,  of  course  John  won't  like  to  ask  me  to 
come  here. 

The  writing  came  to  a  stop  at  this  point,  and  Mary's 
head  was  down  on  her  arms  to  the  imminent  peril 

(202) 


MARY  FAILS  TO  KEEP  RESOLUTION  203 

of  the  freshly  filled  inkstand.  It  was  full  fifteen 
minutes  later  that  she  picked  up  the  fallen  pen  and 
laboriously  began  again,  with  a  deep,  trembling  sigh. 

I  know  I  am  always  doing  something  that  she  doesn't  think  is 
nice,  and  I  stop  when  I  find  out;  but  then  it's  already  done. 
I  never  had  to  think  about  things  before,  because  you  and  Father 
never  minded  what  I  did,  and  John  always  understands  just  what 
I  feel  like;  but  I'm  going  to  be  very  very  careful  to  behave 
"like  a  lady."  I  have  heard  Mrs.  Brown  praise  girls  for  being 
"  ladylike,"  and  I  don't  sit  in  the  kitchen  any  more  since  I  saw  her 
look  disapprovingly  at  me  when  I  was  doing  the  corn  for  the  cook. 

I  like  to  be  doing  something  useful,  and  at  Beach  Haven  it  was 
all  so  different;  but  perhaps  Mrs.  Brown's  kind  of  ladies  don't 
do  things  in  the  kitchen,  or  perhaps  it's  because  she  thinks  I'm 
company.  I  don't  ask  John  about  those  things  because  I  don't 
want  to  trouble  him,  and  I  know  it  hurts  him  very  much  when  he 
sees  that  his  mother  is  displeased  with  me.  I  love  him  so  much 
I  feel  as  if  I  should  burst;  but  I  haven't  once  asked  him  to  kiss 
me  since  you  told  me  not  to. 

There  was  another  pause,  while  Mary's  head  rested 
on  her  hand  and  her  mind  seemed  to  have  wandered 
far  away.  It  soon  came  back  and  she  dipped  her 
pen  afresh. 

You  said  men — I  mean  "old  bachelors" — "didn't  care  for  that 
sore  of  thing,  "  but  I'm  sure  that's  not  it. 

She  looked  abstractedly  at  her  pen,  but  could  not 
find  words  to  express  just  what  she  did  think  was  "it." 

I  should  like  to  do  something  for  him  that  was  hard  and 
disagreeable,  but  all  I  can  think  of  is  trying  to  be  ladylike, 
and  he  doesn't  really  care  about  that:  he  only  cares  about  his 
mother's  caring.  And  there's  being  cheerful  about  going  to 
school.  I  know  he  would  feel  dreadfully  if  he  knew  how  I  cried 
about  it  at  night,  so  I  don't  speak  of  school  to  him,  or  else  I  try 


204  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

to  talk  very  cheerfully.  That  is  as  hard  as  anything  I  can  do, 
but  now  I  have  found  it  isn't  any  use;  I  never  can  deceive  him. 
This  morning  I  said  what  a  good  time  I  was  going  to  have  and  he 
looked  at  me  as  though  I  had  hurt  his  feelings ;  and  then  he  smiled 
all  of  a  sudden  and  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  I'm  just  sure 
he  wanted  to  kiss  me.  But  he  didn't.  I  hoped  he  would,  but 
I  never  said  a  word.  Perhaps  he  thinks  I'm  getting  too  old. 
Oh,  I  don't  want  to  get  old.  I  want  to  keep  a  little  girl  and  be 
petted !  I  wish  I  could  put  my  head  in  your  lap  and  cry.  But  I 
am  going  to  be  brave. 

Miss  Newlin  writes  me  nice  letters,  and  she  says  my  room-mate 
is  the  very  nicest  girl  in  the  whole  school.  She  has  been  there  two 
years  and  she  is  a  year  older  than  I  am.  Her  name  is  Ellen  Logan. 
I  suppose  she  knows  just  how  to  behave,  and  I'm  going  to  copy 
everything  she  does.  But  I  haven't  told  you  about  my  beautiful 
day,  Saturday. 

There  followed  two  whole  pages  of  glowing  descrip- 
tion of  the  game  of  cricket  in  general  and  of  John's 
performance  in  this  particular  game,  followed  by  some 
matters  connected  with  her  school  wardrobe  of  too 
personal  a  nature  to  be  here  set  down. 

Mrs.  Brown  offered  to  help  me  get  some  things.  She  tries  to 
be  nice  to  me  generally,  but  trying  is  very  different  from  just 
naturally  being  nice.  Mrs.  Wharton  liked  my  ways  without 
trying.  We  are  going  to  spend  the  day  with  her  to-morrow. 
I  can't  help  wishing  Mrs.  Brown  wasn't  going,  for  it  is  the  last 
day  I  have  with  John.  He  has  something  important  he  must 
attend  to  in  the  morning  on  Wednesday,  and  then  right  after 
lunch  he  is  going  to  take  me  to  Beechfield. 

She  finished  her  letter  and  decided  that  she  would 
run  out  to  the  nearest  letter-box  and  post  it.  "  I  won't 
need  a  hat  or  gloves  just  that  little  way,"  she  said 
to  herself.  It  was  in  truth  but  a  little  way  and  the 
street  was  very  quiet.  She  had  reached  the  box  and 


MARY  FAILS  TO  KEEP  RESOLUTION  205 

was  lifting  the  lid  of  the  slot  when  the  sound  of  a 
child's  screaming  struck  her  ears.  They  were  the 
sort  of  cries  to  make  one's  heart  stand  still;  but  if 
Mary's  heart  stood  still  it  only  added  wings  to  her 
feet.  She  was  down  Sixteenth  Street  like  a  very 
Atalanta,  and  had  turned  the  corner  into  the  alley 
whence  the  cries  came,  in  time  to  see  a  young  woman 
dragging  a  little  girl  through  a  doorway,  while  she 
struck  her  repeatedly  with  a  stout  stick.  There  were 
no  spectators  but  a  handful  of  awestruck  children 
as  Mary  dashed  by  and  followed  the  woman  into  the 
house.  One  side  of  the  street,  which — like  so  many 
of  its  kind — bore  an  aristocratic  name —  was  flanked 
with  the  high,  blind  wall,  and  closed  service-gates 
of  the  Arch  Street  houses  (mostly  vacant  at  this 
season).  Two  or  three  grumbling  women  came  out 
on  neighboring  doorsteps  in  time  to  see  Mary  dis- 
appear, but  their  disapproval  never  took  any  more 
active  form  than  grumbling.  It  knew  none  to  take. 

The  woman  was  just  closing  the  door  upon  her 
victim  when  Mary  sprang  at  her  like  an  avenging 
fury  and  commanded  her  to  stop  in  a  voice  which, 
combined  with  the  suddenness  and  strangeness  of  the 
apparition,  did  make  the  vixen  pause  for  an  instant, 
stick  in  air.  Only  an  instant,  however. 

"Mind  yer  own  business!"  she  hissed  in  a  low  voice 
of  concentrated  fury,  jerking  the  child  away  by  its 
arm  and  bringing  her  formidable  weapon  down  on 
it  again.  But  she  had  underrated  her  adversary. 
Like  a  flash  Mary  had  wrested  the  stick  from  her 
grasp  and  struck  her  across  the  shoulders  with  all 
the  strength  that  anger  lent  her.  The  child  was 


206  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

loosed  at  once  and  ran  sobbing  through  the  doorway 
while  the  woman  flew  at  Mary  like  a  tiger.  But  Mary 
had  the  weapon  and  used  it  with  telling  effect,  albeit 
mainly  in  self-defence.  (I  can  only  say  "mainly," 
for  our  heroine's  blood  was  up.)  "I'll  have  the  law 
on  ye!"  the  woman  gasped,  while  cries  of  "give  it 
to  her,"  came  from  the  small  but  admiring  audience 
outside  the  door. 

"The  law!"  It  brought  to  Mary's  mind  a  vision 
of  John,  and  she  turned  and  fled  as  fast  as  she  had 
come.  The  woman  saw  that  she  had  made  a  home 
thrust  and  rushed  after  her,  reiterating  her  threat 
with  ornaments  of  language  not  to  be  repeated.  On 
the  pavement,  huddled  against  the  wall  at  the  entrance 
to  Sixteenth  Street,  the  child  had  sunk  down  in  a  sob- 
bing, trembling  heap,  unable  to  go  any  further.  A 
poor,  ugly,  dirty  little  specimen  of  humanity  she  was. 
Mary  went  straight  to  her  and  picked  her  up  with  no 
clear  idea  of  what  she  meant  to  do  next.  Half  a 
dozen  women  held  back  the  child's  tormentor  and 
expressed  their  minds  in  no  measured  terms.  It  had 
only  needed  a  leader  to  cause  a  revolution  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  Mary  suddenly  found  herself  a  heroine, 
with  all  the  world  on  her  side.  It  was  a  small  world, 
and  there  was  no  noise  except  the  storming  of  the 
infuriated  woman.  The  children  were  too  much 
astonished  to  do  more  than  stare.  If  their  educations 
had  included  an  acquaintance  with  the  Archangel 
Michael,  it  is  probable  that  the  feeling  uppermost 
in  their  minds  would  have  shaped  itself  into  the 
belief  that  a  feminine  edition  of  Michael,  halo  and 
all,  had  suddenly  swooped  down  and  vanquished  the 


demon;  for  the  noonday  sun  turned  Mary's  ruffled 
hair  into  a  very  respectable  halo,  and  she  truly  looked 
a  creature  from  some  other  world  than  that  of  her 
companions  or  the  forlorn  child  whom  she  held 
defiantly  to  her  bosom.  It  was  this  picture  that  met 
the  eye  of  her  guardian  as  he  forced  his  long,  impatient 
legs  into  leisurely  step  with  his  mother,  on  their  way 
home  to  lunch.  He  stopped  short,  and  his  sharp 
exclamation  brought  Mrs.  Brown  also  to  a  standstill 
and  made  her  eyes  follow  the  direction  of  his.  In 
that  one  breathless  moment  John's  heart  made  a 
photograph  that  was  never  to  fade  from  his  memory; 
then  he  was  at  Mary's  side. 

"How  came  you  here,  Mary?"  he  asked  in  keen 
anxiety,  attempting  to  take  the  child.  "What  has 
happened?"  But  the  little  wretch  felt  that  she  was 
being  torn  from  her  protector  and  clung  to  Mary 
with  the  strength  of  desperation.  Mary  told  him  the 
main  facts  as  quickly  as  possible,  while  the  furious 
woman,  from  a  little  distance,  hurled  threats  of 
vengeance  and  of  "the  law."  John  turned  and 
measured  her  with  one  glance,  but  he  only  said  calmly: 
"You  shall  have  all  the  law  you  want.  I  am  a  lawyer 
and  a  member  of  the  Society  to  Protect  Children  from 
Cruelty  and  I  will  see  that  your  case  is  attended  to." 

Her  rage  sank  at  once  into  a  hysterical  whimper, 
and  she  declared  that  she  had  only  been  giving  the 
child  the  punishment  it  deserved,  and  that  she  had 
been  attacked  and  brutally  assaulted  in  her  own  house. 

"Did  you  go  into  her  house?"  he  asked  Mary  in 
consternation.  She  saw  the  gravity  of  his  face  at  her 
answer  and  understood  that  she  had  really  been 


208  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

guilty  of  a  punishable  offence.  "But,  oh,  John,  you 
won't  give  her  back  the  child?"  she  cried  her  eyes 
raised  to  his,  unnaturally  big  and  brilliant  with 
conflicting  feelings. 

"Not  now";  he  said  quietly,  succeeding  in  inducing 
the  little  girl  to  let  him  take  her.  "I  hope  not  at  all." 
He  held  the  child  on  his  arm,  while  with  his  left  hand 
he  took  Mary's  to  steady  and  reassure  her.  The 
effect  now  as  always  was  instantaneous. 

"Get  me  a  cab  from  the  station,"  he  said,  turning 
to  a  boy  who  stood  near,  and,  by  voice  and  manner, 
taking  him  at  once  into  partnership  in  an  important 
business.  The  urchin  nodded  and  was  off. 

It  was  a  strange  picture  that  the  steadily  increas- 
ing group  of  spectators  gazed  upon.  The  child  had 
recognized  John's  spirit,  with  a  child's  intuition,  and 
had  buried  her  head  on  his  shoulder;  while  Mary, 
with  her  hand  in  his,  stood  close  to  him,  absolutely 
quiet,  her  torn  and  disarranged  dress  the  only  evi- 
dence of  a  violent  scene. 

"Are   you    the    child's   mother?"    he    asked    the 
woman. 

"No,  she  isn't!"  came  from  a  dozen  lips  at  once, 
followed  by  a  confused  mass  of  testimony  that  made 
John  feel  sure  of  his  case  and  of  sufficient  witnesses. 
He  wasted  very  few  words  now;  but  when  the  boy 
came  back,  triumphantly  enthroned  on  the  seat  of 
a  cab,  he  thanked  him  substantially,  and,  turning 
to  Mary,  bade  her  go  home  with  his  mother  and  leave 
the  whole  matter  in  his  hands. 

She  started  reluctantly  toward  Mrs.  Brown,  who 
had  not  stirred  during  the  whole  drama  and  whose 


MARY  FAILS  TO  KEEP  RESOLUTION  209 

face  bore  a  look  of  ill-concealed  disgust  at  being 
made,  in  some  sort,  a  participant  in  a  street  brawl. 
"What  were  you  doing  without  your  hat?"  she 
asked  Mary  frigidly,  as  they  walked  toward  the 
house.  She  was  not  unkind  and  would  have  been 
glad  at  any  time  to  go  to  some  trouble  to  save  a 
child  from  abuse,  "but  what  possible  business  was  it 
of  Mary's  to  be  prying  into  the  domestic  affairs  of 
such  people  as  these  and  evidently  getting  into  a 
hand-to-hand  encounter  with  a  disreputable  woman! 
She  would  be  thankful  to  have  her  out  of  the  house 
and  in  the  safe  custody  of  a  better  disciplinarian  than 
John !"  A  not  unnatural  wish. 

Mary  put  her  hand  to  her  hair  in  surprise.  "I 
forgot  I  hadn't  on  my  hat,"  she  said  blushing  deeply; 
then  she  retold  her  story  very  briefly,  feeling  more 
and  more  guilty. 

"I  suppose  you  meant  no  harm,  but  you  must 
be  careful  not  to  follow  every  impulse  that  comes 
to  you,  even  if  it  be  a  kind  one.  Wait  to  consult 
someone  as  to  the  proper  way  to  help.  I  am  afraid 
you  have  made  a  good  deal  of  trouble  for  yourself 
and  for  John." 

Mary  made  no  further  excuse,  and  the  thought 
of  getting  John  into  trouble  after  all  her  resolutions, 
went  to  her  heart.  Of  course  he  would  save  her 
from  the  consequences  of  her  rashness;  she  never 
doubted  his  ability  to  do  so  any  more  than  she 
doubted  his  will.  "I  would  rather  go  to  prison, 
though,  than  let  that  woman  have  the  child  to  kill!" 
And  it  was  no  idle  boast.  She  had  read  of  people 
beating  children,  but  it  had  seemed  something  out 


210  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

of  a  bygone  time,  or  too  remote  from  her  experience 
to  touch  her  acutely.  This  sudden  confronting  with 
the  reality  was  too  terrible  to  bear!  When  they 
reached  the  door,  she  followed  Mrs.  Brown  into  the 
house  without  a  word,  and  without  a  glance  at  John 
Patterson's  solicitous  face,  ran  up  to  her  own  room. 
After  changing  her  damaged  frock  she  watched  from 
the  window  for  John's  coming,  which  was  not  long 
delayed;  but  a  shy  pride  prevented  her  going  to 
him  at  once.  She  would  let  his  mother  talk  to  him 
first.  Then  she  remembered  that  in  a  few  minutes 
it  would  be  lunch  time;  she  would  wait  and  go 
straight  to  the  dining-room  and  say  nothing  to  him 
of  her  regret  till  the  meal  was  over,  and  she  could 
find  a  chance  to  talk  to  him  alone.  Surely  she  had 
no  need  to  explain  her  motives  to  him  ! 

They  were  very  kind  to  her,  and  after  John  had 
assured  her  that  the  child  was  in  safe,  kind  hands 
and  would  be  well  cared  for,  the  subject  dropped 
(to  John  Patterson's  keen  disappointment).  She 
felt  the  other  John's  eyes  upon  her  constantly,  though 
she  did  not  meet  them,  and  the  fact  that  there  was 
no  disapproval  of  her  in  his  voice  or  manner  made 
her  feel  none  the  better;  indeed,  it  made  her  the 
more  contrite  and  depressed,  and  she  hardly  raised 
her  eyes  or  ate  a  mouthful  of  the  things  with  which 
John  Patterson  insisted  on  covering  her  plate.  As 
soon  as  they  reached  the  library  she  went  directly 
to  John  and  took  his  hand  with  the  quiet  air  of 
possession  which  Mrs.  Brown  always  found  so  hard 
to  bear,  in  spite  of  her  honest  efforts  to  be  generous. 
"John,  I  am  so  sorry!"  she  said  with  crimsoning 


MARY  FAILS  TO  KEEP  RESOLUTION  211 

cheeks.     "I  meant  to  be  so  careful  and  now  I  have 
gone  and  got  you  into  trouble." 

John  stood  looking  down  on  her,  not  trusting 
himself  to  speak.  Did  he  not  love  every  one  of  her 
childish  impulses  and  actions  with  all  the  pure  pas- 
sion of  tenderness  she  roused  in  him?  But  she 
must  be  "more  like  other  people"  for  her  own  safety 
and  good.  He  dare  not  encourage  her  in  what  he 
understood  so  well  and  sympathized  with  from  the 
bottom  of  his  big  heart. 

"I  ought  to  disapprove  of  what  you  have  done, 
perhaps,"  he  said  finally,  in  a  low  voice,  "for  I  am 
afraid  of  the  consequences  for  you;  but  I  think  if 
I  had  been  in  your  place,  I  should  have  done  just 
the  same.  You  see"  (his  whole  face  responding  to 
the  tremulous  gladness  in  hers)  "I  am  not  a  fit  per- 
son to  have  the  care  of  you,  for  we  are  both  wrong- 
headed." 

Poor  Mrs.  Brown! 

"Oh,  I  never  knew  the  world  was  such  a  wicked 
place,"  Mary  exclaimed,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  shuddering  from  head  to  foot.  The 
thought  that  this  was  only  one  of  the  many  cases 
with  which  the  Cruelty  Society  had  to  deal  seemed 
more  than  she  could  bear.  Mrs.  Brown  was  touched, 
and  she  followed  a  womanly  impulse  and  put  her 
hand  on  Mary's  shoulder.  "There  are  a  great 
many  hard  things  in  the  world,"  she  said  with  grave 
kindliness,  "but  wiser  heads  than  ours  are  at  work 
to  help  them  and  we  have  to  wait  till  we  are  sure 
we  are  doing  the  best  thing  before  we  interfere. 
John  is  giving  his  whole  time  to  helping  people  out 


212  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

of  their  troubles  and  you  will  be  able  to  do  your 
share  some  day,  I  dare  say." 

The  look  on  John's  face  as  his  eyes  met  hers  sent 
the  rare  color  to  her  cheeks.  Mary  turned  to  him 
at  once,  too  much  in  earnest  even  to  feel  grateful 
for  Mrs.  Brown's  changed  manner.  "When  I  am 
grown  up  will  you  teach  me  how  to  help  you?"  she 
asked. 

"Yes,"  he  said  simply. 
******* 

The  intelligent  reader  probably  knows  far  better 
than  I  what  is  the  legal  penalty  attached  to  such  a 
misdemeanor  as  Mary's  and  what  steps  it  was  neces- 
sary for  John  to  take  to  free  her  from  its  consequences. 
I  only  know  that  he  did  free  her.  How  a  magistrate 
might  reason  in  such  a  case,  I  cannot  attempt  to 
say;  but,  in  all  humility,  I  would  ask  how  that 
could  be  called  "assault  and  battery"  which  was 
committed  with  the  express  purpose  of  preventing 
"assault  and  battery";  and  how  a  breach  of  peace 
can  occur  when  there  is  no  peace  to  break.  No 
doubt  I  might  inform  myself  on  all  these  questions 
and  attempt  to  describe  how  Mary  was  brought  into 
court,  for  brought  into  court  she  assuredly  was,  and 
just  what  occurred  in  the  "Cruelty"  case  to  which 
she  was  forced  to  witness;  but,  after  being  at  infinite 
pains  with  the  main  facts,  I  should  be  sure  to  show 
my  ignorance  in  a  minor  detail  and  expose  myself 
to  the  cynical  smiles  of  the  well-informed.  The 
worst  that  befell  her  was  the  aforesaid  obligation  to 
appear  in  court,  and  an  occasional  disturbance  of 
her  healthy  rest  by  hideous  nightmares;  the  best 


MARY  FAILS  TO  KEEP  RESOLUTION  213 

was  a  much  more  friendly  relation  established  be- 
tween herself  and  Mrs.  Brown.  It  may  seem  strange 
that  her  worst  solecism  should  have  gone  far  to  heal 
the  breach  made  by  her  lesser  ones;  but  so  it  was. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  "HILL  OF  DIFFICULTY" 

IT  had  come  at  last,  the  day  that  had  so  long 
loomed  on  their  horizon;  and  now,  as  always, 
the  "hill  of  difficulty"  which  had  looked  so  steep 
ahead  of  them  grew  less  as  they  began  to  mount  it 
and  the  summit  already  beckoned  as  to  a  view  of  a 
land  of  hope  beyond. 

As  Mary  had  written  Catharine,  John  had  no 
trouble  in  seeing  through  her  well-meant  histrionic 
efforts,  but  he  felt  that  a  brave  facing  of  this  tre- 
mendous new  change  in  her  life  was  the  only  way 
for  her;  and  her  conduct  comforted  and  reassured 
him.  She  was  developing  fast  in  these  last  weeks. 
In  spite  of  the  fresh  proof  of  her  childish  impetuosity 
he  had  become  conscious  of  a  new  self-control  and 
strength  of  character,  and  a  new  reserve,  that  were 
making  her  older  and  more  womanly.  Looking 
back  over  the  months  of  their  daily,  almost  hourly, 
companionship,  he  saw  the  difference  in  her  plainly, 
and,  above  all,  the  difference  in  her  attitude  toward 
himself.  One  period  overlapped  the  next  and  many 
single  occurrences  seemed  to  contradict  him,  but 
looking  broadly  at  the  past  four  months,  the  lines 
of  demarcation  were  clear. 

It  was  useless  to  try  to  go  through  the  forms  of 

(214) 


A   "HILL  OF  DIFFICULTY"  215 

business  that  morning.  He  had  important  letters 
to  answer,  and  evidence  to  sift.  He  forced  himself 
to  use  his  ordinary  intelligence,  but  it  all  seemed 
deadly  unimportant  compared  to  the  trial  for  which 
he  was  bracing  himself. 

Beechfield  was  about  fifteen  miles  from  the  city 
and  they  had  to  change  trains  to  reach  it.  John  was 
extraordinarily  calm  and  cheerful  now  that  the  time 
had  come,  and  they  discussed  their  visit  of  the  day 
before  and  his  engagement  to  spend  as  much  of  the 
Thanksgiving  holidays  with  Mrs.  Wharton  as  he 
could.  He  told  Mary  of  a  new  game  he  had  heard 
about,  which  he  was  sure  she  would  like,  and  Mrs. 
Wharton  was  so  fond  of  games!  Then  they  touched 
on  the  still  brighter  prospect  of  the  Christmas  holi- 
days. Mrs.  Brown  had  been  forced  to  a  somewhat 
shamefaced  comparison  of  her  own  attitude  toward 
Mary  with  Mrs.  Wharton's  whole-souled  reception 
of  her  yesterday,  and  had  given  her  a  really  cordial 
invitation  to  spend  her  two  weeks  of  Christmas 
vacation  with  them.  She  had  felt  repaid  when  she 
saw  the  grateful  color  flood  the  girl's  face  and  her 
eyes  brighten;  and  with  the  impulse  that  one  kind 
action  gives  toward  another,  she  had  kissed  her  with 
evident  heartiness  on  saying  good-bye. 

As  they  boarded  the  second  train,  which  had  but 
a  short  distance  to  go,  the  cheery  conversation 
dragged  a  little.  Their  eyes  met  and  John  had  an 
odd  sensation  of  panic,  like  a  soldier  who,  marching 
bravely  to  the  very  guns  of  the  enemy,  suddenly 
feels  all  his  courage  gone  and  only  the  impulse  to 
turn  and  flee.  He  talked  faster  and  laughed  at 


216  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

things  that  were  very  mildly  funny.  His  eyes  avoided 
further  meetings  with  Mary's  as  he  helped  her  from 
the  train  and  walked  beside  her  to  the  house,  which 
was  well  set  back  from  the  road  in  beautiful  old- 
fashioned  grounds.  Two  generations  before  it  had 
been  the  country  home  of  a  local  magnate,  and  was 
falling  to  decay  from  disuse  when  it  had  come  into 
Miss  Newlin's  hands,  fifteen  years  ago,  at  a  merely 
nominal  price,  one-third  of  which  was  accepted  in 
the  form  of  a  mortgage. 

Through  the  wide-open  front  door  Miss  Newlin 
saw  the  oddly  mated  pair  approaching  and  hastened 
forward  to  welcome  them.  After  a  warm  embrace, 
she  kept  Mary's  hand  in  hers,  leading  them  thus 
from  room  to  room,  while  the  keen  brown  eyes 
studied  them  closely  and  her  plain,  strong  face  wore 
a  singularly  gentle  expression.  She  pointed  out  all 
the  places  that  were  to  be  specially  associated  with 
Mary;  her  desk  in  the  study  and  seats  in  dining- 
room  and  classrooms.  She  felt  the  girl's  hand  cold 
in  hers  and  saw  that  her  interest  in  her  new  home 
was  by  no  means  so  keen  as  her  guardian's.  His 
long,  observant  eyes  missed  no  detail  in  the  once 
familiar  rooms  where  the  years  had  made  few  changes. 
The  sadness  of  the  old  association  was  swallowed  up 
in  the  interest  of  the  new,  and  Miss  Newlin  shrewdly 
suspected  that  he  would  be  able  to  conjure  up  a 
picture  of  Mary  at  every  hour  of  the  day.  She 
might  have  added  "and  night  too,"  for  the  room  in 
which  they  ended  their  survey  was  the  best  known 
to  him  of  all. 

"Mary,"  Miss  Newlin  said  as  they  entered  the 


A  "HILL  OF  DIFFICULTY"  217 

rather  bare,  old-fashioned,  but  cheerful  and  homely 
chamber,  where  three  windows  let  in  the  sunlight 
from  early  till  late,  "this  room  is  the  one  that  Mr. 
Brown's  sister  Margaret  occupied  for  the  whole 
three  years  that  she  was  with  me,  and  he  thought 
it  would  please  you  to  be  here.  You  are  to  have 
the  same  bed  too." 

Mary  colored  deeply  with  pleased  surprise,  but 
John's  eyes  would  not  meet  her  eager  ones  and  his 
lips  warned  her  to  say  nothing.  The  room  was 
longer  than  wide  and  duplicate  articles  of  furniture 
were  so  arranged  as  to  make  it  serve  the  purpose 
of  two,  with  the  help  of  a  tall,  folding  screen,  closed 
just  now.  The  single  beds  stood  at  its  opposite 
ends,  and  on  the  one  nearest  the  door  a  half-dozen 
packages  were  temptingly  set  forth,  while  a  bunch 
of  autumn  flowers  stood  on  the  dressing  bureau  near 
it.  Mary  looked  without  a  smile  at  the  parcels  that 
would  have  thrilled  her  with  excited  curiosity  at 
another  time.  Her  play-acting  was  getting  more 
and  more  faint-hearted,  and  the  tears  more  and 
more  insistent.  She  drew  her  hand  from  Miss  New- 
lin's  and  went  to  the  window.  They  could  not  see 
her  face.  Miss  Newlin  found  herself  wondering 
what  was  likely  to  follow  John's  exit. 

"You'll  have  a  busy  time  opening  all  these  things, 
Mary,"  he  said  briskly,  pulling  out  his  watch. 
"I  think  I  would  better  be  leaving  you  to  start  to 
work;  I  haven't  any  too  much  time  for  my  train, 
I  see." 

Mary  turned  sharply  around,  and  though  her 
eyes  looked  suspicious,  she  was  on  her  mettle  and 


218  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

even  tried  to  smile  as  she  said  decidedly,  "I'm  going 
to  the  station  with  you!" 

"Oh,  no,  Mary,"  both  her  companions  exclaimed 
at  once,  and  both  began  to  remonstrate;  but  they 
spoke  to  deaf  ears.  She  went  straight  to  John  and 
seized  his  hand.  "Oh,  yes,  I  must,"  was  all  she  said, 
but  her  face  made  them  decide  to  oppose  her  no 
longer. 

"Well,  go  down  to  the  gate;"  Miss  Newlin  said 
with  a  sympathetic  thrill  in  her  voice,  "and  I  will 
wait  for  you  on  the  piazza.." 

Mary  deigned  no  reply,  and  they  started  off  hand 
in  hand  by  the  short  cut  to  the  gate  which  Miss 
Newlin  pointed  out  across  the  lawn  and  through 
the  shrubberies.  "I  don't  want  a  short  cut,"  Mary 
said,  yielding  nevertheless  to  John's  leading. 

He  talked  to  her  quietly  of  several  matters  of 
business;  told  of  some  books  that  were  to  come 
for  her  in  a  day  or  two,  etc.  He  saw  that  her  eyes 
kept  turning  to  his  face,  as  though  she  marveled  at 
his  coolness,  and  was  trying  to  decipher  his  real 
feeling  amid  so  many  commonplaces.  He  avoided 
them  till  he  had  nearly  reached  the  gate,  when  he 
turned  and  looked  straight  down  at  her  with  an 
unfeigned  light  in  his  own. 

"Now,  Mary,  run  back  and  open  the  packages. 
There  is  something  among  them  that  I  bought  for 
you;  that  I  had  specially  made  for  you,  and  I  want 
very  much  to  know  how  you  like  it.  Write  me  this 
evening  and  tell  me,  won't  you?  Don't  forget!" 
He  did  not  say  good-bye;  he  gave  the  hand  he  held 
a  quick  strong  pressure,  stooped  and  kissed  her  fore- 


A   "HILL  OF  DIFFICULTY"  219 

head  with  the  cool,  hurried  touch  of  compressed  lips, 
and  was  gone.  He  never  looked  back  as  he  went 
quickly  behind  the  old  trees,  stumbled  down  a  low 
retaining  wall  that  flanked  part  of  the  driveway  and 
made  blindly  for  the  gate.  It  was  of  no  use,  all  his 
common-sense  and  philosophy!  He  had  climbed 
this  first  steep  to  the  top,  and  the  whole  plain  beyond 
was  a  desert  waste!  Suddenly  he  heard  his  name 
called,  with  a  panting  sob,  close  beside  him.  Mary 
was  running  straight  toward  him,  her  tear-wet  face 
all  one  flushed  entreaty.  He  sprang  to  her  as  she 
reached  the  wall,  and  then  her  wet  cheek  was  against 
his  and  she  was  wrapped  in  a  close  embrace.  The 
little  wall  leveled  the  difference  in  height  between 
them,  and  for  the  first  time  they  stood  thus,  face 
pressed  to  face,  heart  to  heart.  The  old  smoke  tree 
seemed  to  bend  further  forward  to  screen  them  from 
impertinent  glances  of  passers-by,  but  they  were 
beyond  caring  for  passers-by.  John  had  forgotten 
his  hardly  maintained  prudence,  although  it  was  he 
who  first  recalled  himself. 

"Help  me  to  be  brave,  my  dearest!"  The  broken 
words  were  wrung  from  his  very  heart  and  went 
right  to  Mary's  as  no  considered  phrase  of  consola- 
tion or  appeal  could  possibly  have  done.  She  drew 
away  at  once  and  let  him  go  without  a  word.  The 
sense  of  utter  desolation  that  a  moment  before  had 
robbed  her  of  the  last  remnant  of  self-control,  was 
replaced  by  a  wave  of  feeling  so  strong  and  sweet 
that  the  bitterness  of  the  parting  was  gone.  A 
happy  tumult,  a  nameless  unrest  filled  her  heart; 
but  it  was  quick  to  change  from  languor  to  resolve. 


220  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

It  was  to  be  always  thus  with  her;  love  of  man  or 
love  to  God  were  to  be  forthwith  translated  into 
action.  It  was  a  lonely  figure  that  started  back 
across  the  smooth  green,  but  Miss  Newlin,  who  came 
forward  to  meet  her,  saw  the  uplifted,  resolute  face, 
and  felt  that  she  was  encountering  an  unsuspected 
force  of  character.  The  memory  of  Dick  had  been 
strong  upon  her  as  she  waited,  and  in  the  look  that 
met  hers  now  she  saw  the  selfsame  traits  that  had 
made  his  face  an  unfading  picture  in  her  mental 
gallery. 

"She  has  the  same  stuff  in  her,  I  believe,"  she  said 
to  herself,  and  it  was  a  tribute  to  Mary  that  she  offered 
none  of  the  little  condolences  usually  welcome  to 
homesick  schoolgirls.  This  one  would  be  an  absorb- 
ing study  she  decided.  She  drew  Mary's  hand  through 
her  arm  and  led  her  to  a  broad  garden  seat  under  a 
great  beech  worthy  of  its  English  sisters.  "This 
was  Margaret's  favorite  seat,"  she  said,  drawing 
Mary  down  beside  her  and  launching  at  once  into 
a  glowing  description  of  Margaret,  her  talents,  traits 
of  character,  pastimes  and  favorite  haunts;  to  all 
of  which  Mary  listened  with  rapt  attention. 

"I  think  Mr.  Brown  had  never  been  here  since 
that  old  time,  till  he  came  to  see  me  about  you. 
It  would  have  been  painful  to  him,  no  doubt;  but 
I  am  very  glad  he  will  have  a  reason  for  coming  often 
now.  He  always  interested  me,  though  he  was  so 
reserved  as  a  lad  that  I  never  got  far  with  him." 
A  suspicious  tremor  on  the  listening  face  warned 
her  to  change  the  subject  for  the  present.  She 
spoke  in  quite  another  tone,  of  practical  questions 


A  "HILL  OF  DIFFICULTY"  221 

to  be  settled  at  once,  and  of  the  seamstress  coming 
to-morrow  to  make  some  dresses  for  Mary.  "I  had 
some  pretty  materials  sent  out  on  approval,  so  you 
must  take  your  choice  and  let  the  others  go  back 
to-morrow.  Will  you  come  in  and  look  at  them  now?" 

Mary  obeyed  willingly  enough  and  showed  a  chas- 
tened interest  in  the  materials  and  trimmings  spread 
before  her.  "She  is  not  vain,"  was  Miss  Newlin's 
surprised  comment,  as  her  new  charge  made  quick 
choice  of  three  dress-stuffs  and  then  turned  away 
with  heightened  color: 

"I  think  I  will  open  my  parcels  now,"  she  said. 

Her  room  was  near  the  Principal's,  but  Miss  New- 
lin  did  not  go  back  with  her.  She  dismissed  her  with 
an  approving  smile  and  pat  on  the  shoulder  which 
was  somewhat  higher  than  her  own. 

Mary  was  almost  blinded  by  the  level  rays  of  the 
western  sun  as  she  opened  the  door  of  her  room — 
the  room  that  had  been  Margaret's  for  three  years. 
For  how  many  years  would  it  be  hers?  Was  it  to 
be  her  home  for  always,  perhaps?  Something  rose 
in  her  throat  that  was  hard  to  swallow.  The  bare- 
ness of  the  roomy  chamber  was  transfigured  by  the 
rays  of  the  descending  sun,  and  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
many  tokens  of  loving  thought  for  her  comfort  and 
pleasure;  but  the  lump  only  grew  bigger.  She 
struggled  hard  against  the  aching  sense  of  strange- 
ness and  loneliness.  She  drew  her  hand  across  her 
eyes  in  boyish  fashion.  The  feel  of  John's  arms 
around  her,  the  sound  of  his  parting  words  in  her  ear 
quieted  the  rising  sobs.  His  need  of  her  was  real! 
He  was  lonely  too !  Surely  he  would  not  let  her  stay 


222  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

there  always;  he  would  find  a  way  to  have  her  near 
him !  She  went  quietly  to  work  to  untie  the  package 
nearest  her.  She  wished  John  had  told  her  which 
was  his.  The  lid  lifted  from  the  big  box  showed  a 
pretty  wrapper  of  soft  flannel  with  her  favorite  blue 
bows,  to  one  of  which  was  tied  a  little  note  in  Cath- 
arine's tremulous  handwriting.  As  she  untied  the 
string  of  the  next  in  order,  the  lump  in  her  throat 
was  better  and  it  seemed  to  grow  still  less  as  she  looked 
at  the .  crimson  knitted  garment  which  Mrs.  Whar- 
ton's  active  ringers  had  made  for  her,  and  which  in 
those  days  was  called  a  "Jersey,"  though  now  it 
would  receive  the  more  euphonious  name  of  "  sweater." 
She  smiled  a  tremulous  little  smile  as  she  thought 
of  this  other  good  friend.  And  what  was  this  big 
odd-looking  bundle?  It  began  to  be  rather  exciting. 
Ah,  this  was  it!  That  was  John's  writing  on  the 
note  attached  to  some  collapsible  book-shelves,  held 
at  the  corners  by  strong  silk  cord.  He  had  had  them 
made  specially  for  her!  She  was  more  eager  for  the 
note  than  for  the  gift. 

It  told  her  that  he  had  sent  the  box  of  her  father's 
favorite  books  to  Beechfield,  and  she  could  choose 
all  she  wanted  for  the  shelves  and  let  Miss  Newlin 
store  the  rest.  Her  eyes  were  bright  through  tears 
as  she  said  to  herself  "Oh,  that  is  just  like  John; 
he  knew  how  homelike  they  would  make  my  room 
right  away!"  She  must  write  him  as  soon  as  she 
unpacked  her  paper.  She  rose  to  do  it  at  once,  but 
something  in  the  shape  of  the  next  parcel  arrested 
her  attention;  it  looked  like  a  portfolio!  Yes  a  cor- 
ner of  dark  blue  leather  showed  through  the  inner 


A   "HILL   OF  DIFFICULTY"  223 

wrapper  as  she  discarded  the  thick  outer  one  Who 
could  have  given  her  that?  Her  interest  was  much 
less  now,  but  curiosity  was  normal  with  her.  She 
gave  the  paper  a  pull  and  lifted  the  leather  cover, 
and  then — she  was  gazing  down  into  John's-  very 
eyes.  They  were  so  real  and  live  that  she  drew  a 
gasping  astonished  breath.  There  he  sat  just  as  he 
had  sat  that  evening  at  Beach  Haven  when  she  had 
asked  him  for  a  picture  and  he  had  refused.  It  had 
hurt  her  so  much  and  seemed  so  unlike  him  not  to 
even  give  her  a  reason!  And  maybe  all  the  time  he 
had  been  planning  this  surprise!  Even  the  left  hand 
on  the  arm  of  the  Morris  chair  was  posed  exactly 
as  she  had  posed  it  then,  and  the  right  one  held  a  book 
on  his  knee.  The  picture  was  three  or  four  times 
the  size  of  a  cabinet  photograph  and  was  focussed 
near  to  the  camera  so  that  he  seemed  close  to  her, 
and  the  eyes  were  looking  straight  into  hers  with 
just  the  look  they  always  had  when  he  knew  he  was 
going  to  please  her.  She  gazed  and  gazed  till  they 
were  blotted  out;  then  she  sank  on  her  knees  beside 
the  bed  and  laid  her  face  upon  her  new  treasure. 
It  was  not  the  cold,  unresponsive  celluloid  that  her 
hot  cheek  pressed,  but  the  living,  palpitating  reality 
beneath  it.  Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  did  not 
see  the  golden  glory  all  around  her.  It  was  only 
when  the  glory  suddenly  faded  that  she  started,  as 
with  a  new  thought,  and  rose  to  her  feet.  Miss 
Newlin,  who  sat  writing  at  her  desk  in  her  quiet 
room,  was  startled  by  the  tempestuous  opening  of 
the  door  without  any  preceding  knock.  Mary's 
glowing  face  quite  dazzled  her  and  put  all  thought 


224  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

of  remonstrance  out  of  her  mind.  Perhaps  some  day 
she  should  be  able  to  make  this  child  of  nature  con- 
form to  ordinary  rules  and  conventions  without 
being  restive  and  unhappy,  but  now  was  not  the  time 
to  begin. 

"When  does  anyone  go  with  the  post,  Miss  New- 
lin?"  inquired  the  unceremonious  visitor  in  a  breath- 
less voice. 

Miss  Newlin's  eyes  twinkled  as  they  glanced  at 
the  little  clock  in  front  of  her.  "In  about  fifteen 
minutes,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you."  The  door  was  shut  again  none 
too  gently  and  she  heard  Mary's  own  close  almost 
simultaneously.  She  smiled  a  knowing  little  smile. 

"Someone  will  be  reassured  to-morrow  morning, 
and  I  doubt  whether  he  will  have  enough  peace  of 
mind  to  sleep  before.  How  his  heart  is  centered  on 
the  child!  He  has  a  tremendous  influence  over  her. 
Will  it  be  all  he  wants,  I  wonder?"  she  sighed.  "If 
it  is  ever  in  my  power  to  help  you  to  your  heart's 
desires,  Mr.  John  Brown,  you  may  count  upon  me. 
People  would  say  I  was  a  very  unsafe  guardian  of 
young  girls  if  they  heard  me,"  she  ended  with  a  rather 
sad  smile,  "and  the  difference  in  age  is  much  too  great, 
I  know;  but  a  man  like  that  ought  not  to  be  wasted." 
Wasted,  indeed,  and  she  an  old  maid  who  considered 
herself  a  useful  factor  in  the  world ! 

Miss  Newlin's  fears  for  John's  rest  that  night  were 
not  unfounded;  but  while  he  "dreed  his  wierd" 
till  the  small  hours,  and  Catharine's  tender  heart 
could  find  no  comfort,  thinking  of  her  darling  "away 
off  there  in  a  strange  bed  crying  herself  to  sleep  and 


A   "HILL   OF  DIFFICULTY"  225 

no  one  to  comfort  her"  (for  had  not  Mary  confessed 
to  nightly  tears  even  under  the  roof  of  her  beloved 
"John?");  while  even  Mrs.  Wharton  lay  awake  far 
beyond  her  usual  time,  remembering  the  child  who 
was  making  her  start  in  life  alone,  the  object  of  all 
their  solicitude  was  sleeping  soundly  and  contentedly, 
with  a  blue  leather  case  under  her  pillow. 


15 


CHAPTER  XXII 
"THE  LITTLE  GREEN  SNAKE"  STINGS  DEEPLY 

THAT  evening  John  managed  to  make  a  very 
creditable  attempt  at  conversation  during 
dinner,  but  he  did  not  even  deceive  the  sym- 
pathetic John  Patterson,  who  remarked  to  Hannah 
in  the  privacy  of  the  pantry  that  he  thought  "Mr. 
John  was  feelin'  powerful  bad.  He  didn't  eat  hardly 
a  bite  of  his  dinner,"  he  said  solemnly.  "He  just 
pretended,  and  he  talked  like  company  and  looked 
absent-minded  at  the  table-cloth  or  in  his  plate. 
It's  a  great  pity  we  can't  have  more  young  life  in 
this  house.  He's  got  old  before  his  time  and  we 
haven't  thought  much  about  it,  he's  always  so  cheer- 
ful and  contented.  I  never  noticed  it  so  much  since 
Miss  Margaret  died  as  I  have  this  summer,  when  I 
heard  him  laugh  and  make  jokes  with  Miss  Mary." 
"Ah,  I'm  sure  he's  wishin'  he  could  keep  her  for 
good,"  Hannah  answered.  "Maybe  when  she  gets 
old  enough  he'll  marry  her."  In  Hannah's  eyes  all 
"Mr.  John"  would  ever  have  to  do  would  be  to 
mention  his  desires  to  the  chosen  one.  "The  woman 
he  marries  '11  be  as  happy  as  a  queen,  but  he  never 
seems  to  take  notice  of  anybody,  and  few  ever  come 
here  except  them  that  are  old  enough  to  be  his 
mother." 

(226) 


"LITTLE   GREEN  SNAKE"   STINGS    227 

John  only  gave  a  little  grunt.  "She's  certain  sure 
fond  enough  of  him  to  do  anything  he  wanted  her 
to,  but  I  s'pect  it'll  be  a  good  while  before  she  knows 
what  that  kind  o'  fondness  means.  She's  a  good 
deal  like  a  child,  for  all  she's  so  big  and  can  talk  so 
wise.  I  never  heard  such  subjects  as  they'd  get  on 
sometimes." 

"She's  a  loving  nature,"  Hannah  rejoined.  "She's 
got  to  have  somebody  to  pet  her  and  make  much 
of  her.  She  put  her  two  arms  around  me  and  kissed 
me  when  she  was  leavin',  and  says  she,  'Hannah, 
I  wish't  you  were  goin'  to  be  at  the  school/  she  says. 
I  declare  I  just  had  to  wipe  me  eyes."  Even  in  the 
telling  of  it  Hannah's  apron  was  again  brought  into 
play.  "I  can't  bear  to  think  of  her  bein'  left  all  by 
herself  in  a  strange  school." 

"Ay,  ye  may  be  sure  that's  what's  frettin*  Mr. 
John  more  than  just  missin'  her.  He's  hardly  thought 
of  anything  but  her  this  whole  blessed  summer. 
It's  a  funny  thing,"  he  added  with  a  little  chuckle 
and  a  confidentially  lowered  voice.  "Ye  know  I 
told  ye  about  her  gettin'  him  to  eat  rice  puddin' 
and  macaroni,  and  sayin'  he  liked  'em.  Well,  I 
declare,  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Brown  more'n  half  liked 
it  when  she  saw  him  eatin'  'em." 

Hannah  evidently  had  ideas  on  this  phase  of  the 
subject  which  she  thought  as  well  to  keep  to  herself, 
but  she  looked  pleased  as  well  as  amused  over  the 
conversion,  and  a  soft  little  smile  hovered  about  her 
kindly  face  as  she  went  up  stairs  to  "turn  down 
the  beds." 

Meantime  the  object  of  their  interest  was  under- 


228  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

going  a  narrow,  if  covert,  scrutiny  under  the  eyes  of  his 
mother.  She  had  spoken  frankly  and  fully  at  table, 
of  missing  Mary,  and  had  asked  several  questions 
as  to  the  school  arrangements,  as  to  Mary's  prospec- 
tive room-mate,  etc.;  and  had  inquired  whether 
Miss  Newlin  were  failing  in  health  as  some  people 
thought,  and  all  through  dinner  had  kept  up  what 
John  Patterson  called  "company  talk"  on  other 
subjects.  But  after  she  had  been  settled  for  some 
time  on  one  side  of  the  library  table  plying  her 
needle,  while  John,  on  the  other,  was  ostensibly 
absorbed  in  the  evening  paper,  she  was  very  quiet, 
and  an  expression  of  sorrowful  determination  gradually 
overspread  her  face.  He  was  partly  turned  from  her 
as  though  the  better  to  catch  the  light  over  his 
shoulder,  but  from  time  to  time  he  had  put  down 
his  paper  and  gone  to  his  den  as  though  in  search 
of  something.  She  had  refrained  from  comment, 
but  she  knew  that  he  was  not  reading,  let  him  turn 
the  paper  about  as  often  as  he  would.  Finally  after 
a  last  excursion  he  broke  the  silence  by  an  indifferent 
remark  on  the  news  of  the  day.  His  mother  quietly 
put  down  her  work  and,  going  around  the  table 
behind  him,  laid  one  hand  on  his  shoulder:  "My 
dear  boy,  you  trouble  me,"  she  said  with  an  effort 
to  clear  her  throat  of  some  choking  obstruction. 

John  quickly  put  up  his  hand  and  took  hers  from 
his  shoulder,  giving  it  a  strong  grasp  and  letting  it 
drop.  It  was  a  mute  prayer  to  be  spared  and  Mrs. 
Brown  partly  understood  it  so;  but  she  was  a  woman 
not  easily  turned  from  her  purpose  and  her  whole 
heart  was  in  this  one. 


"LITTLE   GREEN  SNAKE"  STINGS    229 

"I  wouldn't  say  anything,  dear,  if  I  did  not  feel 
that  you  were  probably  storing  up  great  unhappiness 
for  yourself  in  the  future."  Not  a  sound;  not  the 
movement  of  a  muscle.  "I  must  warn  you  before 
it  is  too  late." 

Another  silence;  she  could  not  see  his  face,  but  she 
had  seen  it  many  times  this  past  week  with  an  expres- 
sion she  could  not  forget.  Finally,  as  she  seemed 
willing  to  wait  indefinitely,  but  was  determined  on 
some  response,  he  said  in  an  unnaturally  quiet  voice: 
'I  am  afraid  it  is  too  late  now." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  exclaimed  vehemently,  "it  cannot 
be  too  late!  Why,  she  is  a  mere  child!"  (She  for- 
got that  she  had  used  the  opposite  argument  a  few 
days  before.)  "You  are  too  strong  a  man  to  let  your- 
self be  conquered  by  this — weakness.  Face  it  squarely 
and  make  your  feeling  for  her  what  you  will,  no  doubt, 
have  to  make  it  later.  The  longer  you  indulge  this 
the  harder  it  will  be.  Now  you  have  simply  got 
accustomed  to  having  her  about  you  and  it  is  natural 
that  you  should  miss  her  for  a  while;  but  that  will 
pass,  and —  He  rose  quickly  and  went  to  the  open 
window,  drawing  aside  the  curtains  and  leaning  his 
forehead  against  the  high  sash.  "I  am  not  strong," 
he  said  without  looking  around,  "or  if  I  am  my 
strength  is  all  on  the  wrong  side." 

Mrs.  Brown  hardly  heeded  his  words,  so  eager 
was  she  to  press  home  her  own  point. 

"She  is  very  fond  of  you,  of  course,  but  can't 
you  see  that  she  has  no  conception  of — "  she  stumbled 
and  hesitated.  "She  will  be  sure  to  have  a  very 
different  feeling  for  somebody  else  in  a  few  years 


230  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

and  then  she  will  expect  your  sympathy  and  approval. 
I  know  I  hurt  you  in  speaking  out  so  bluntly — I 
hurt  myself,  perhaps,  just  as  much — but  you  don't 
understand  women  as  well  as  I  do,  and  it  will  break 
my  heart  if  I  see  you  spoiling  your  life  for  a  castle 
in  the  air." 

Her  lips  were  trembling  and  the  tears  had  long 
ago  brimmed  over.  There  was  not  a  word  from  the 
motionless  figure  in  the  window.  She  stood  with 
her  hand  on  the  back  of  his  deserted  chair;  her  eyes 
fixed  piteously,  irresolutely  upon  him.  A  sort  of 
passionate  resentment  was  rising  within  her  against 
the  disturber  of  their  peace.  She  could  not  keep  a 
note  of  sharpness  out  of  her  voice  as  she  went  on 
hurriedly;  "she  is  beautiful  enough  even  now  to 
turn  all  the  men's  heads,  and  she  will  be  a  regular 
candle  for  the  moths  in  a  few  years.  And  trust  me, 
she  will  not  be  at  all  indifferent  to  admiration." 

John  turned  suddenly  and  faced  her  from  between 
the  curtains;  his  white  calm  face  towering  above 
her. 

"Mother,  I  know  you  are  right  and  I  shall  try  not 
to  harbor  any  illusions.  Mary" — his  lips  trembled 
as  they  uttered  her  name — "must  never  suspect  my 
— feeling — for  her.  If  she  understood  and  were 
repelled,  as  no  doubt  she  would  be,  it  would  make 
my  work  for  her  terribly  hard.  Don't  you  see?" 

The  memory  of  that  close  embrace,  of  her  face 
pressed  to  his,  was  vivid  to  him.  She  had  not  under- 
stood even  then;  she  had  not  made  the  slightest 
effort  to  disengage  herself.  He  hardly  knew  whether 
her  unconsciousness  gave  him  more  relief  or  pain. 


"LITTLE   GREEN  SNAKE"   STINGS    231 

"I  shall  try  not  to  deceive  myself,"  he  went  on 
unsteadily,  "but  she  is  a  sacred  trust  to  me  and  what- 
ever happens,  7  can  never  give  her  up." 

"Oh,  John!"  The  poor  lady  went  back  to  her 
chair  and  took  up  her  work  as  though  it  were  the 
shroud  of  her  dead  happiness. 

"You  have  seen  that  she  is  fond  of  me,"  he  spoke 
in  the  same  quiet  voice.  But  suddenly  self-control 
gave  way  and  his  face  and  voice  showed  a  passion 
of  which  she  had  not  believed  him  capable.  "I 
would  undergo  anything  rather  than  give  up  what 
I  have.  If  I  ever  felt  her  shrink  from  me" — he 
broke  off  abruptly  and  in  another  moment  he  was 
gone.  She  heard  the  door  of  his  room  shut  and  knew 
that  she  should  see  him  no  more  that  night.  Was 
the  old  happy  life  together  gone  forever? 

Involuntarily  her  hands  clenched  with  a  feeling 
that  was  close  to  hatred  for  this  girl  of  sixteen  years 
who  held  him  so  completely  in  her  power.  After 
all,  was  John  right  in  thinking  that  Mary  would 
shrink  from  him?  That  had  not  been  his  mother's 
fear.  She  only  resented  the  idea  that  this  spoiled 
child  might  take  all  as  her  right  and  give  nothing. 
For  what  would  her  grateful  affection  be  to  him  if 
he  must  stand  by  and  see  her  give  her  life  into  another 
man's  keeping  and — still  more  tragic  possibility — see 
another  man  hold  her  happiness  in  his  power  and 
destroy  it!  What  a  task  he  had  set  himself!  Never 
to  confess  his  own  love,  for  fear  of  losing  the  power 
to  help  her,  and  never  to  leave  her  that  he  might 
try  to  conquer  it  or  forget  it!  His  words  rang  in 
her  ear.  "7  can  never  give  her  up!"  In  a  sudden 


232  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

illuminating  flash  she  saw  it  all  and  knew  that  he 
saw  it  too. 

John  was  down  before  her  in  the  morning,  very 
quiet  and  middle-aged  after  his  night's  vigil.  He 
did  not  even  glance  at  the  little  pile  of  letters  beside 
his  plate,  but  went  straight  to  the  garden  and  was 
busily  engaged  in  tying  up  one  of  his  favorite  rose- 
bushes when  John  Patterson  followed  him  with  them. 
He  glanced  up  inquiringly,  a  branch  in  one  hand  and 
a  piece  of  twine  in  the  other.  It  was  unusual  for 
John  Patterson  to  depart  from  an  established  custom ; 
but  something  in  the  face  of  his  humble  adorer 
arrested  him.  Was  it  possible?  His  sudden  color 
asked  the  question;  a  spark  somewhere  in  the  back 
of  John  Patterson's  blue  eye  answered  it.  He  dropped 
the  branch  and  held  out  his  hand  for  the  packet. 

"Breakfast  will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes,"  John 
Patterson  reminded  him  as  he  moved  lingeringly  away. 

John's  hand  trembled  as  he  went  hastily  through 
the  bundle.  There  it  was — the  childish  round  hand, 
less  assured  and  more  childish  than  usual.  She 
had  written  in  great  haste.  He  tore  the  envelope 
as  he  tried  to  open  it,  and  the  few  penciled  lines 
were  indistinct  to  him.  Then  he  pulled  himself 
together  and  read  them  quietly,  trying  to  profit 
by  his  mother's  advice. 

Oh,  John,  I  could  never  tell  you  and  even  you  could  never 
guess!  It  is  so  wonderful  and  it  makes  me  so  happy!  To 
think  that  it  is  my  very  own  to  keep  forever  and  ever  and  take 
everywhere  I  go!  It  was  almost  the  last  parcel  I  opened — Oh, 
and  I  never  opened  the  other!  If  I  could  love  you  any  harder  I 
would,  after  this,  but  you  know  I  couldn't. 


"LITTLE   GREEN   SNAKE"   STINGS    233 

The  note  ended  without  valedictory  or  signature. 

He  went  in  to  breakfast  with  a  very  serene  face 
and  met  his  mother's  surprised  glance  with  the  sim- 
ple statement  that  he  had  had  a  note  from  Mary 
and  that  she  seemed  quite  satisfied  and  happy. 

Mrs.  Brown's  eyes  filled,  but  she  only  said  that  she 
was  glad  to  hear  it.  The  photograph  for  herself 
was  still  to  be  presented  and  John  had  rarely  faced 
so  much  of  an  ordeal.  Surely  it  ought  to  be  easier 
after  last  night's  confession,  but  it  only  showed  another 
flagrant  example  of  his  weakness.  The  photograph 
was  not  just  like  Mary's,  though  he  told  himself 
that  it  was  equally  good.  Perhaps  it  had  been  vanity 
as  well  as  the  wish  to  please  her  that  had  made  him 
pose  his  hand  for  Mary  and  make  the  picture  larger 
in  consequence  of  giving  her  so  much  of  his  big 
person.  This  one  was  larger  than  ordinary  cabinet 
size,  but  was  only  a  vignetted  bust  likeness.  It  was 
an  excellent  one,  however,  and  he  felt  sure  that, 
the  first  little  jealous  pang  over,  his  mother  would 
be  much  pleased.  She  had  gone  into  the  library 
after  breakfast,  and  had  seated  herself  to  take  her 
usual  glance  over  the  Ledger  before  going  about  her 
housekeeping  duties.  John  came  over  to  her  and  put 
the  picture  in  her  lap  without  a  word.  He  had  many 
misgivings,  but  was  quite  unprepared  for  her  recep- 
tion of  it.  She  took  it  up  and,  for  what  seemed  to 
him  an  eternity,  studied  it  with  a  perfectly  immovable 
face.  Suddenly  it  fell  from  her  hands  and  her  face 
was  buried  in  them  as  she  broke  into  hysterical 
weeping.  Her  reign  was  ended  indeed! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
MARY  WANTS  TO  BE  "LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS" 

AFTER  the  first  week  or  two  of  orientation 
there  was  never  any  doubt  of  Mary's  school  life 
being  happy.  She  was  naturally  of  a  buoyant, 
enthusiastic  disposition,  and  there  was  a  great  deal 
to  interest  and  stimulate  her  in  her  new  world.  The 
newness  itself  was  a  constant  excitement,  and  the 
girls — their  language,  their  habits  and  ideals,  their 
complaints  and  criticisms,  their  little  subterfuges 
and  shirkings — aroused  in  her  something  of  the  same 
curiosity  and  interest  that  the  ethnologist  feels  in 
coming  upon  a  totally  new  tribe,  while  they,  for 
their  part,  looked  on  her  as  an  exotic  who  must  be 
handled  with  care,  and  who,  being  under  Miss  New- 
lin's  special  wing  and  having  the  freedom  of  Miss 
Newlin's  room,  must  be  confided  in  with  caution. 
They  soon  discovered,  however,  that  nothing  that 
Mary  saw  or  heard  was  repeated  at  headquarters, 
and  even  among  the  lighter  weights  in  the  little  com- 
munity she  became  a  favorite.  Some  were  inclined 
to  patronize  her  for  her  want  of  style  and  sophisti- 
cation, but  she  did  not  even  recognize  patronage, 
and  took  it  in  perfectly  good  part,  even  accepting 
the  loan  of  a  lace  collar  and  sash  on  the  occasion 
of  the  first  entertainment. 

.  .C234) 


"LIKE   OTHER   GIRLS"  235 

"Mary,  dear,"  Ellen  Logan  said,  putting  her  arm 
around  her  friend's  waist;  for  they  were  already 
intimate  and  Mary  accepted  Ellen's  advice  on  mat- 
ters of  social  and  school  etiquette,  "I  know  you  won't 
mind  my  telling  you,  but  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't 
borrow  things  of  the  girls,  and  especially  not  of 
those  girls!"  She  rather  stumbled  at  that  point, 
not  knowing  how  to  put  into  words,  to  this  innocence, 
the  subtle  class-distinction  that  made  "those  girls" 
not  comme  il  faut.  She  was  not  a  snob,  but  had  the 
prejudices  of  her  class  in  the  uncompromising  form 
in  which  they  are  generally  held  by  girls  of  seventeen 
or  eighteen,  only  covered  by  admirable  manners. 
Mary  colored,  but  took  the  advice  with  wonderful 
meekness,  being  conscious  of  many  solecisms  and 
having  made  that  resolve  to  learn  to  be  "ladylike." 

"I  didn't  care  about  them,  for  the  lace  in  this 
collar  isn't  fine,  and  I  don't  like  lace  and  embroidery 
much  when  they  aren't  fine;  but  they  seemed  so 
interested  to  have  me  look  nice  I  was  afraid  I  would 
hurt  their  feelings  if  I  didn't  take  the  things."  Her 
voice  was  deprecating;  almost  humble. 

Ellen,  who  was  half  a  head  shorter  than  Mary  and 
very  slenderly  built,  put  her  arms  impulsively  around 
her  new  friend  and  kissed  her  warmly.  "You  darl- 
ing!" was  all  she  said.  Again  the  worldly-wise 
advice  died  on  her  lips  and  she  felt  ashamed  of  the 
comments  she  had  been  about  to  make.  She  would 
not  even  tell  Mary  that,  homemade  clothes  and  Miss 
Newlin's  rather  peculiar  taste  notwithstanding,  she 
was  a  very  princess  beside  her  patronesses.  All 
she  finally  said  was:  "Your  face  is  so  perfectly 


236  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

lovely,  Mary;  no  one  will  ever  have  time  to  look  at 
your  clothes." 

Mary  colored  with  pleasure,  but  made  no  depreca- 
tory answer.  "Girls  will,"  she  said  simply,  showing 
more  astuteness  than  her  friend  had  credited  her 
with.  Then  she  added  with  a  fleeting  smile,  "I 
don't  suppose  John  would  ever  know  what  I  had  on; 
but  I  can  see  that  my  things,  even  my  new  dresses, 
have  a  different  look  from  yours.  I  don't  know 
why  exactly,  but  I  don't  think  they  are  cut  out  the 
same  way.  Miss  Lambert  said  they  fitted  me,  and 
there  aren't  any  wrinkles  exactly" — she  paused  at 
a  loss — "but  your  brown  suit  looks  very  different, 
and  there  isn't  a  bit  of  trimming  on  it." 

"That  suit  was  made  by  a  tailor,  and  they  do  cut 
differently  from  women,"  Ellen  said  with  some 
embarrassment.  She  had  no  idea  of  Mary's  pecuni- 
ary status,  and  knew  that  the  plain  suit  in  question 
had  probably  cost  twice  as  much  as  Mary's  best  one. 

"Do  you  know  Miss  Caroline  Hutchinson?"  was 
the  next  surprising  question,  which  did  not  seem 
irrelevant  to  Ellen. 

"Yes,  they  are  sort  of  cousins  of  ours,  I  don't 
know  how,  and  we  never  see  much  of  her  because 
she  is  'out'  and  very  gay,  but  we  always  call  her 
father  'Cousin  James.'  Do  you  know  her?" 

"No,  I  only  saw  her  at  the  cricket  match  John 
took  me  to;  but  I  think  she  is  perfectly  lovely  look- 
ing and  her  clothes  just  seem  as  though  they  grew 
on  her,  and  yet  they  weren't  a  bit  tight." 

"I  know  exactly  what  you  mean,  but  Mother  said 
once  that  Caroline  spent  a  little  fortune  on  her  clothes. 


"LIKE   OTHER   GIRLS"  237 

Those  simple-looking  things  are  made  by  very  expen- 
sive dressmakers  and  tailors  and  Mother  thinks  it 
bad  taste  for  girls  like  us  to  spend  a  lot  on  clothes. 
Caroline  has  everything  to  accord,  and  dresses  for 
every  possible  kind  of  time  or  weather.  Cousin 
James  is  awfully  rich — millions  and  millions — and 
he  hasn't  a  soul  in  the  world  but  her,  and  he  gives 
her  every  single  thing  she  wants  and  thousands  of 
dollars  of  spending  money.  She  isn't  really  a  bit 
spoiled — that  is,  she  isn't  disagreeable.  She's  very 
affectionate,  and  nice  to  all  the  servants,  and  thought- 
ful of  her  father,  but  she  has  no  idea  about  money. 
She  wouldn't  think  anything  of  paying  a  hundred 
dollars  for  a  white  dress  to  wear  in  the  morning  and 
you'd  only  think  how  sweet  and  simple  she  looked." 

Mary  was  petrified  by  these  revelations.  Some 
day  she  meant  to  speak  to  John  about  this  absorbing 
question;  but  she  saw  him  so  seldom,  and  there  was 
always  so  much  to  talk  about,  and  somehow  she  was 
a  little  shy  of  financial  questions.  She  was  altogether 
a  little  shyer  with  him  than  in  the  summer. 

On  the  first  visit  he  had  paid  her,  John  had  seized 
his  courage  and  Mary  with  both  hands  and  in  spite 
of  her  wistful,  wondering  eyes,  which  broke  their 
promise  to  Catharine,  if  her  lips  did  not,  had  man- 
aged to  say  lightly,  almost  gaily,  that  he  must  not 
kiss  her  any  more  now  that  she  was  a  "boarding- 
school  young  lady." 

He  had  seen  the  brilliant,  welcoming  flush  fade 
and  give  place  to  an  unnatural  stillness  and  pallor. 
The  long,  dark  lashes  hid  her  eyes.  "Do  you  mean 
never?"  The  question  had  sounded  breathless. 


238  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

Did  he?  His  pounding  heart  denied  it  while  he 
said  quietly,  "I  suppose  I  do." 

She  had  taken  it  very  quietly;  so  quietly  that 
John  marveled,  and  longed  to  read  what  was  going 
on  behind  those  lowered  lids.  But  prudence  had 

overcome  curiosity. 

******* 

"John,"  she  said,  on  one  of  his  visits,  after  she  had 
received  him  with  a  very  demure  hand-shake  and 
they  had  had  a  blissful  half  hour  of  companionship, 
"how  much  money  ought  I  to  spend  on  my  clothes  in 
a  year?" 

John  looked  as  though  the  ground  had  suddenly 
opened  in  front  of  him. 

"Why?"  he  said,  after  a  very  keen  glance  up  and 
down  her  crimson  stuff  dress,  with  its  white  tucked 
silk  "guimpe"  and  the  bands  of  velvet  that  had 
seemed  to  Miss  Newlin  a  very  elegant  little  finishing 
touch.  "Is  there  something  you  want?" 

Mary  colored  deeply  and  her  eyes  fell.  "No, 
nothing  particular.  Miss  Newlin  told  me  you  wanted 
me  to  have  all  the  things  I  needed  and  I  was  to  choose 
what  I  liked,  and  they  are  very  pretty,  and  good 
material,  so  they  will  wear  well,  she  said" — she 
hesitated  and  her  eyes  were  lifted  appealingly  to 
John's.  It  was  so  hard  to  explain  to  him. 

"But  the  dresses  don't  quite  satisfy  you?" 

"Oh,  John!"  Her  face  was  flaming  now  and  he 
saw  the  tears  behind  the  darkness  of  her  eyes.  "You 
will  think  me  so  horrid  and — and  ungrateful  for  all 
your  care,  and — vain!"  It  was  no  use;  the  tears 
would  come. 


"LIKE   OTHER   GIRLS"  239 

"Did  I  ever  think  anything  unkind  of  you?"  he 
asked  very  low. 

She  made  a  vehement  protest  and  he  went  on  with 
his  grave  eyes  on  hers.  "I  think  I  can  understand 
anything  you  could  feel.  Try  to  tell  me,  as  though 
I  were — your  father.  It  would — hurt  me — to  feel 
I  was  losing  your  confidence."  Mary  put  her  hand 
out  impulsively  and  he  took  it  and  held  it  fast  while 
she  told  him  all.  She  ceased  to  blush  or  stammer  as 
she  saw  the  sympathetic  interest  in  his  face,  and 
her  frank  eyes  never  wavered. 

When  the  confidence  was  ended  he  released  her 
hand  and  felt  in  an  inner  pocket  for  a  thin  Russia- 
leather  note-book. 

"John,  I  could  tell  you  about  anything!  And  you 
don't  think  me  silly  and  vain,"  Mary  said  with  no 
interrogation  point;  his  face  had  reassured  her. 

"I  don't  think  it  is  silly  to  prefer  a  skilful  piece  of 
work  to  a  mediocre  one,  and  it  is  always  a  good  thing 
to  know  the  difference,  but" — his  eyes  were  on  the 
little  book  and  his  color  had  risen  slightly — "I  do 
think  it  would  be  silly  to  spend  a  great  deal  on  clothes 
that  were  masterpieces  when  there  are  so  many  other 
things  to  spend  it  on,  and  when" — he  gave  her  a 
glance  more  significant  than  he  knew — "when  it 
makes  so  little  difference." 

"Not  to  you,  I  know,"  she  said,  smiling  a  frank 
and  very  loving  appreciation  of  his  meaning;  "but 
I  should  like  to  look  like  Ellen  and  the  Coates  girls, 
and- 

John  interrupted  her  by  an  irrepressible  little  laugh, 
but  he  kept  his  dancing  eyes  on  the  account  book  and 


240  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

drew  out  its  pencil.  He  tore  out  a  leaf  and  made 
a  memorandum  of  several  sums;  then  he  turned  to  her 
with  a  gravity  that  was  not  forced. 

"Mary,  you  have  told  me  your  story  and  now  I  will 
tell  you  mine.  You  are  old  enough  and  sensible 
enough  to  be  given  a  full  account  of  your  father's 
affairs  and  your  own  prospects."  And  he  went  over 
the  whole  matter  with  her,  giving  her  the  amount  of 
her  father's  property  and  the  average  income;  and 
explaining  the  nature  of  his  trust.  "Anything  you 
spend  now  is  loaned  from  the  estate  before  you  are 
twenty-one,  and  I  hope  to  make  your  property  larger 
by  at  least  two  thousand  dollars  each  year.  After 
that" —  he  paused. 

"But  you  will  al  'ays  help  me,  even  when  I  am 
twenty-one,  won't  you?"  -gain  the  interrogation 
point  was  absent. 

John's  color  was  unsteady  as  he  explained  that 
Dick  had  left  the  money  in  his  hands  even  after  her 
majority.  He  saw  intelligence  in  her  face  before 
she  said  gravely,  "Father  was  afraid  I  would  let 
somebody  get  it  away  from  me."  She  had  hit  the 
nail  fairly  on  the  head  at  the  first  blow. 

John  blushed  still  more  and  hesitated. 

"But  I  promised  him  I  would  never  marry  anybody 
unless  you  approved,"  she  said  impulsively,  too  much 
in  earnest  to  blush,  herself,  or  even  to  notice  the  change 
her  words  made  in  John.  Every  drop  of  color  was 
gone  from  the  face  that  bent  over  the  little  book. 
There  was  a  long  pause  before  he  lifted  it  and  said 
huskily:  "That  is  a  very  heavy  responsibility." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  interrupted  him  eagerly,  and  added 


"LIKE   OTHER   GIRLS"  241 

with  heightened  color  and  that  look  of  awaking 
womanhood  he  had  lately  seen  in  her  eyes:  "I 
should  never  like  anybody  unless  he —  She  was 
going  to  say  "unless  he  were  like  you,"  but  suddenly 
considered  the  improbability  of  anyone's  being  the 
least  like  John,  and  ended  more  quietly,  "unless 
you  liked  him  too." 

She  did  not  notice  his  face  now,  but  a  sure  intui- 
tion told  her  that  her  marriage,  whenever  it  came, 
and  to  whomsoever,  would  be  a  pain  to  John. 

"Perhaps  I  shall  never  want  to  get  married," 
she  said  quickly.  "At  any  rate,  not  for  a  long, 
long  while." 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  yourself,"  John  answered,  but 
his  face  brightened.  "I  think  I  will  put  four  hundred 
dollars  in  the  bank  for  your  yearly  spending  money 
and  let  you  do  your  own  managing.  I  will  give  you 
a  check-book  and  show  you  how  to  keep  it,  and  I  need 
not  know  how  you  use  it  unless  you  overdraw." 

"Oh,  but  John,  I  would  never  use  so  much  as  that!" 
she  said  with  brilliant  eyes. 

"Wait  till  you  begin  ordering  your  stylish  suits," 
he  rejoined,  laughing.  But  she  was  suddenly  serious. 

"Do  you  know,  it  seems  as  though  I  didn't  care 
about  them  at  all  now,"  she  said.  "I  never  spent 
much  money  on  anything,  because  I  knew  Father 
wasn't  rich,  and  being  sick  costs  a  good  deal;  and  he 
was  always  careful  about  expenses.  He  would  have 
•wanted  to  give  me  things  if  he  thought  I  cared  about 
them,  but  I  really  never  thought  much  about  clothes 
till  I  came  to  school." 

When  John  was  leaving  he  said  with  evident  zest: 

16 


242  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"I  will  take  you  to  the  city  on  your  next  holiday 
and  introduce  you  at  the  '  Fidelity '  and  show  you  how 
to  manage  your  own  affairs;  and  later  I  will  explain 
to  you  how  your  money  is  placed,  even  though  I 
can't  give  you  control  of  the  capital!" 

"I  suppose  Father  was  right  about  me,"  Mary 
said  reflectively;  "because  I  love  people  so  hard. 
If  you  were  to  lose  your  money  or  need  some  for  your 
work,  I  should  like  to  give  you  every  cent  I  had!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Miss  NEWLIN'S  DIPLOMACY 

"~1~"XO  you  know,  Mary,  the  postman  has  come 

J    to  be  the  main  interest  in  my  days?"  John 

had  said  on  that  first  visit  when  he  had 

declined  to  kiss  her.    He  had  had  an  undefined  wish 

to  make  amends  somehow  and  his  little  speech  had 

succeeded  beyond  his  hopes. 

"But  I  mustn't  let  you  write  to  me  every  day, 
now  that  you  are  studying,"  he  went  on  hastily,  in 
a  more  matter-of-fact  tone.  "And  only  two  lines 
will  content  me  when  you  do.  Just  write  to  me  that 
you  are  well  and  happy,  or  let  me  know  if  you  want 
something." 

"Oh,  but  I  love  to  write!"  She  had  forgotten 
shyness  and  was  looking  earnestly  at  him.  "The 
mail-bag  goes  down  to  the  post  office  every  night 
just  before  supper,  and  I  always  have  some  time  to 
myself,  because  I  can  dress  faster  than  Ellen.  I 
might  write  on  a  whole  lot  of  envelopes  at  once  and 
keep  them  in  my  desk  all  stamped,  and  then  I  could 
go  in  the  study  and  write  for  just  ten  or  fifteen  min- 
utes by  the  clock  before  I  go  to  my  room  every  after- 
noon, and  you  would  get  the  note  next  morning, 
as  you  did  my  first  one."  Her  eyes  and  cheeks 
were  bright  with  the  prospect. 

(243) 


244  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

A  sudden  thought  occurred  to  John.  "How  would 
it  do  if  I  had  my  name  printed  on  a  pile  of  stamped 
envelopes?"  he  said. 

The  idea  had  been  welcomed  enthusiastically,  and 
the  square  envelope  never  failed  of  its  place  on  the 
top  of  John's  little  breakfast  pile,  for  John  Patterson 
had  early  discovered  the  secret,  and  felt  sure  that 
that  little  four-by-five  receptacle  of  no  measurable 
thickness  contained  compressed  sunshine  for  his 
master's  whole  day. 

And  so  the  weeks  flew  by,  and  the  Thanksgiving 
vacation  at  Mrs.  Wharton's  had  come  and  gone, 
leaving  a  beautiful  reflection  of  full  days  and  cosy 
evenings,  when  a  student  lamp  shone  on  three  happy 
faces  (Mrs.  Brown  had  declined  the  cordial  invitation). 
Even  the  coveted  Christmas  holidays  were  only 
something  to  be  treasured  in  the  retrospect,  as  a 
time  of  sad  memories  shared,  and  in  the  sharing 
made  a  joy.  They  had  left  reminders  more  substan- 
tial, however,  and  John  opened  his  watch-case  oftener 
now  than  was  needed  to  tell  the  time  of  day.  Mary 
had  repaid  him  for  the  pleasure  his  photograph  had 
given  her,  by  having  a  small  one  taken  of  herself 
and  colored  by  the  painting  teacher  at  Beechfield. 
The  light  platinum  print  of  her  head  and  shoulders 
had  been  treated  in  a  masterly  manner  by  Mr.  Rey- 
nolds, who  contrived  to  give  it  a  depth  and  charm 
worthy  of  his  name,  and  so  satisfactory  to  himself  that 
only  a  robust  sense  of  honor  prevented  his  keeping 
a  copy  for  his  private  delectation. 

John  had  not  attempted  a  word  of  thanks  when 
he  opened  the  little  package  that  Mary  had  slipped 


MISS  NEWLIN'S  DIPLOMACY         245 

into  his  hands  with  her  "Merry  Christmas."  He 
had  given  her  one  look  and  had  gone  out  of  the  room, 
although  they  two  were  alone. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  she  had  asked  him  softly  when 
he  came  back.  He  had  tried  to  answer  her,  but  had 
completely  choked,  and  his  thanks  had  remained 
unspoken.  He  never  told  her,  either,  of  having 
taken  it  from  the  pretty  frame  with  which  she  had 
encircled  it,  and  cut  it  to  fit  into  his  big  watch. 
More  than  a  year  after,  Mary  asked  him  whether 
his  watch  was  his  father's.  "No,"  he  answered, 
looking  oddly  at  her,  as  though  he  suspected  her  of 
clairvoyance.  "My  father  sent  to  England  for  it 
for  me  the  Christmas  before  he  died." 

"No  wonder  you  love  it!"  she  said  with  suffused 
eyes,  marveling  to  see  him  turn  red  and  look  positively 
guilty. 

Now  it  was  only  three  weeks  till  Easter,  which 
came  late  this  year,  and  spring  was  awaking  the  whole 
earth  day  by  day,  bringing  myriads  of  nesting  song- 
birds, and  making  the  girls  by  turns  wild  with  exhil- 
aration or  languid  with  "spring  fever." 

Mary  was  to  spend  the  Easter  holidays  with  Ellen 
Logan  in  the  country  home  on  the  banks  of  the  Del- 
aware, to  which  the  family  always  migrated  with 
the  spring  birds,  and  from  which  they  reluctantly 
returned  with  the  first  snows.  She  was  a  good  deal 
changed  by  the  winter  of  school  life,  yet  there  was 
very  little  outward  alteration.  The  childish  way 
of  wearing  her  hair  in  a  "pump-handle"  gave  her  a 
simplicity  which  the  more  mature  carriage  and  man- 
ner did  not  destroy. 


246  A  LIVING   LEGACY 

"Don't  let  them  interfere  with  your  hair!"  John 
had  besought  her,  and  she  had  quietly  resisted  all 
efforts  to  make  her  change  her  style  of  arrangement. 
Most  of  them  had  to  acknowledge  that  it  became 
her  well.  In  spite  of  great  possibilities  of  brightness, 
her  face  had  a  gravity  and  her  eyes  a  deep  thoughtful- 
ness  quite  different  from  the  sadness  of  depression 
or  discontent  to  be  seen  occasionally  on  some  of  the 
youthful  faces  about  her.  Her  religious  life,  so  vital 
a  factor  in  her  development,  was  of  a  kind  to  isolate 
her  from  her  companions  so  far  as  confidential  rela- 
tions were  concerned.  They  had  nearly  all  been 
received  by  confirmation  or  other  ceremony  into 
some  spiritual  fold;  and  many  of  them  were  earnest 
Christian  girls,  with  a  serious  purpose  in  life,  while 
nearly  all  accepted  the  traditions  of  their  fathers 
without  a  qualm  or  question.  But  Mary  instinctively 
knew  that  they  could  not  have  fully  sympathized 
with  her;  that  even  Ellen,  who  was  a  very  intelligent 
girl  of  noble  character  and  deeply  religious  temper, 
had  been  unable  to  see  the  weight  of  the  obstacles 
that  kept  Mary  a  church  waif;  and  the  sensitive 
nature  retired  more  into  itself  and  submitted  to  be 
tacitly  regarded  by  the  others  as  peculiar,  if  not 
slightly  tainted  with  heresy.  When  she  had  called 
herself  a  Friend,  accepting  John's  classification  as  a 
sort  of  haven  for  her  wistful  spirit,  she  had  at  once 
been  met  with  the  question,  "Orthodox  or  Hicksite?" 
and  had  been  quite  at  a  loss  how  to  reply.  Even 
among  Friends  one  must  be  classified  according  to 
doctrine,  it  seemed.  How  could  the  "Inward  Light" 
on  which  both  depended,  the  "Christ  Within"  one 


MISS  NEWLIN'S  DIPLOMACY         247 

soul,  be  totally  at  variance  with  the  "Christ  Within" 
another?  The  question  troubled  her,  as  it  could 
only  have  troubled  a  straightforward,  intensely 
earnest  nature.  After  all,  could  one  depend  on  that 
"Inward  Light?" 

She  spoke  of  her  doubt  to  Miss  Newlin  when,  by 
virtue  of  her  privileged  position,  she  had  been  curled 
up  in  the  corner  of  the  Principal's  sofa  one  blustry 
afternoon,  when  March  seemed  doing  his  best  to 
"go  out  as  a  lion."  That  lady  was  busy  with  a 
thick  sheaf  of  history-class  papers,  but  met  the  inter- 
ruption with  a  smile.  "I  wondered  what  you  were 
dreaming  about,"  she  said.  "My  dear  child,  I  am 
a  great  sceptic  as  to  the  'Christ  Within.'  I  believe 
in  it  theoretically,  of  course,  as  everyone  does,  to  a 
certain  extent;  but  unless  you  can  get  perfectly  pure 
hearts  to  contain  Him,  the  image  must  be  a  more  or 
less  marred  one.  Only  an  immaculate  shrine  could 
enclose  an  infallible  'Inward  Light.'  I  think  the 
Friends  have  'hitched  their  wagon  to  a  star'  with 
a  vengeance,  and  I  have  known  some  saints  among 
them  who  did  seem  to  me  to  come  very  close  to 
unerring  communion  with  their  Father  in  Heaven, 
but  a  good  many  have  surely  been  woefully  mis- 
guided." 

"But  what  can  we  depend  on?"  Mary  asked,  her 
lustrous  eyes  darkly  shadowed.  "We  might  try  to 
find  someone  good  enough  to  have  a  perfect '  Inward 
Light,'  and  ask  him  what  to  think  or  do." 

"I  think  we  are  justified  in  doing  that  up  to  a 
certain  point,  but  it  seems  as  though  God  had  not 
meant  us  to  have  anything  infallible  to  lean  upon, 


248  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

whether  Pope,  or  Church,  or  Bible.  All  have  their 
place,  but  none  is  perfect,  and  it  is  dangerous  to  de- 
pend too  much  on  any  human  being's  guidance. 
Even  Christ  felt  it  'expedient'  to  go  away." 

"But  he  promised  to  send  'the  Comforter  to  guide 
us  into  all  truth.'  I  believe  that  as  firmly  as  any- 
thing. It  seems  to  me  John  is  about  perfect  and 
yet  I  can't  join  the  Church  and  say  the  catechism 
and  Creed  because  he  does.  He  wouldn't  let  me  if 
I  wanted  to." 

"He  is  right,"  Miss  Newlin  said  promptly.  "I 
think,  dear,  you  are  one  of  those  souls  to  whom 
God  speaks  in  no  uncertain  language.  You  are 
absolutely  honest  to  yourself  as  well  as  to  other 
people,  and  it  is  a  rare  quality.  It  means  much  that 
I  am  not  afraid  of  saying  this  to  you." 

A  wave  of  gratified  feeling  sent  a  warm  glow  over 
Mary's  face  and  suffused  her  eyes.  She  said  noth- 
ing and  there  was  a  long  silence  while  Miss  Newlin 
put  the  papers  into  a  side  drawer  of  the  desk  and 
leaned  back  in  her  chair  as  though  tired  out. 

"But  people  help  me  a  great  deal,"  Mary  finally 
went  on.  "Sometimes  God  seems  far  off,  and  when 
I  read  the  Bible — because  I  know  Christ  is  just  the 
same  as  God — He  seems  far  off  too.  They  had  such 
different  ways  of  doing,  off  there,  and  so  long  ago!" 
Miss  Newlin  nodded  her  head  slightly,  her  eyes  fixed 
broodingly  on  the  face  of  the  "Gran  Duca"  Madonna 
above  her  desk. 

"Sometimes  I  feel  very  near  to  Jesus  and  I  seem 
to  understand  him  perfectly — when  he  takes  the 
little  children  in  his  arms  and  when  he  calls  the 


MISS   NEWLIN'S   DIPLOMACY          249 

Pharisees  names;  but  then  when  he  says  to  his 
mother,  'Woman,  what  have  I  to  do  with  thee?' and 
when  he  drowns  all  those  poor  swine  that  must  have 
belonged  to  somebody,  I  suppose,  and  had  nothing 
to  do  with  making  the  man  crazy;  or  when  he  curses 
the  fig  tree  for  not  bearing,  when  it  says  in  one 
place  that  the  'time  for  bearing  was  not  yet/  he 
seems  to  get  far  away  and  the  Christ  in  me  tells  me 
differently.  Only  I  always  wonder  if  they  really  got 
it  down  just  right." 

Miss  Newlin  looked  over  at  her  with  a  tender  little 
smile.  She  saw  there  was  no  flippancy  or  irreverence 
in  the  comment,  and  the  problem  was  a  painful  one 
to  the  loving  heart.  "You  are  a  wonderful  child," 
she  said,  but  she  said  it  to  herself. 

"But  then,"  Mary  continued,  in  a  totally  different 
tone,  "I  just  remember  God  made  Father  and  John, 
so  I  know  I  love  Him.  He  wouldn't  have  known 
how  to  make  them  have  such  ways  if  He  hadn't 
had  them  Himself,  would  He?" 

"You  are  using  one  of  the  great  arguments  of  a 
certain  school  of  thought,  and  I  believe  it  is  as  true 
as  it  is  simple.  The  watch  presupposes  the  watch- 
maker," Miss  Newlin  answered  with  conviction. 
"You  have  been  favored  with  two  unusual  patterns," 
she  added  gently. 

Mary's  face  was  softly  pensive  for  a  moment, 
then  a  sudden,  complete  change  crossed  it.  "Miss 
Newlin,  do  you  know  Maud  Harvey  asked  me  to-day 
how  I  would  like  it  if  John  got  married.  She  said, 
'he  wouldn't  be  sending  me  things  and  writing  to 
me  so  often  if  he  had  a  wife  and  children  to  look 


250  A  LIVING   LEGACY 

after!'  As  if  John  would  ever  get  married!  He 
never  thinks  of  such  a  thing." 

"Indeed,  I  hope  and  believe  he  will  marry,  one 
of  these  days.  He  is  a  magnificent  man  and  I  should 
feel  very  sorry  to  think  he  was  not  to  have  the  expe- 
rience of  being  a  husband  and  father.  It  would  be 
a  great  loss  to  some  fine  woman  and  to  the  whole 
community."  Her  observant  brown  eyes  were  taking 
careful,  though  covert,  note  of  the  sudden  blank 
change  in  Mary's  guileless  face. 

"But  he  told  me  he  was  never  going  to,"  Mary 
said  falteringly. 

"That  is  one  statement  it  is  never  safe  to  believe, 
even  from  the  most  truthful  person  in  the  world. 
But  you  will  never  be  slighted,  Mary.  Married  or 
single,  Mr.  Brown  is  not  the  man  to  neglect  his 
trusts;  and  he  is  too  fond  of  you  to  forget  you." 

"I  think  I  put  in  a  solid  piece  of  work  for  you 
then,  Mr.  John  Brown,"  she  added  to  herself.  Then, 
after  a  prolonged  silence  in  which  she  seemed  to  find 
a  sudden  absorbing  interest  in  some  memoranda, 
she  saw  Mary  quietly  put  down  her  book  and  leave 
the  room. 


"HAT'S  the  matter,  Mary?"  Ellen  met 
her  friend  coming  hastily  out  of  their 
room  decked  in  Mrs.  Wharton's  crimson 
jersey,  and  a  more  recent  gift  of  a  "Tarn  o'Shanter" 
to  match,  and  drawing  on  her  warm  gloves  with 
feverish  energy;  while  her  cheeks  were  brilliant  and 
her  eyes —  It  seems  to  have  been  settled  from  time 
out  of  mind  that  eyes  shine  "like  stars";  conse- 
quently, though  we  may  never  have  happened  to 
see  an  eye  the  least  bit  like  a  star,  we  must  perforce 
express  ourselves  in  the  language  of  comparison  best 
fitted  to  convey  our  meaning,  even  though  it  do 
violence  to  our  love  of  truth;  and  I  am  thus  con- 
strained to  record  that  Mary's  eyes  were  "shining 
like  stars." 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  answered  hurriedly.  "Only 
the  house  seems  so  stuffy  and  the  wind  isn't  so  high 
now;  it's  getting  nicer  out  of  doors." 

Ellen  said  no  more,  but  she  stood  in  the  door- 
way a  moment  looking  after  the  retreating  figure  with 
a  thoughtful  face.  Even  the  very  slight  prevarica- 
tion was  not  like  Mary's  usual  openness.  "I  am  sure 
someone  has  hurt  her  feelings  or  made  her  angry," 
she  said  to  herself. 

(251) 


252  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

It  was  Mary's  habit  to  smooth  her  ruffled  plumage 
by  an  escape  out  of  doors  when  it  was  feasible;  but 
she  always  was  willing  to  confide  other  than  religious 
troubles  to  her  room-mate.  This  time  she  would 
really  have  been  at  a  loss  to  say  what  the  matter 
was.  She  had  not  put  it  into  words  and  was  far 
from  analyzing  the  pain  and  excitement  she  felt. 
She  almost  thought  that  she  was  thinking  only  of 
the  value  of  fresh  air. 

The  cold,  blustering  wind  was  in  fact  dying  down 
somewhat  and  the  sun  was  sending  golden  beams 
from  time  to  time  between  the  flying  cloud  masses 
that  quenched  them  just  as  they  began  to  shed  a 
steady  radiance.  A  little  song  sparrow  on  a  bare 
branch  over  Mary's  head  seemed  bursting  with  rap- 
ture over  his  spring  housekeeping  and  nothing 
daunted  by  March's  lion-like  exit.  She  looked  up 
at  him,  but  his  happy  little  warble  hurt  her.  The 
wind  cooled  her  hot  cheeks,  but  she  was  only  half 
conscious  of  it.  The  ground  was  beginning  to  freeze 
again  after  the  frost  had  been  well  out ;  and  she  watched 
it  idly  as  it  yielded  grudgingly  under  her  stout  shoes. 
Then  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  across  the 
broad  lawn  which  a  week  of  mild  sunshine  had  made 
a  fine  emerald.  It  was  literally  strewn  with  robins 
trotting  about,  intent  on  their  suppers.  Here  and 
there  one  tugged  at  a  refractory  worm  that  the 
freezing  ground  was  loath  to  give  up. 

In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast. 

The  words  were  fresh  in  her  mind  from  a  recent 
reading  of  the  poem  with  Miss  Newlin.     "Miss  New- 


MARY  FIGHTS  THE  "GREEN  SNAKE"  253 

lin  says  these  aren't  the  same  kind  of  robins,"  she 
said  as  though  to  convince  herself  that  her  mind 
was  occupied  only  with  what  was  before  her  eyes. 
But  the  name  recalled  a  still  more  recent  utterance 
of  Miss  Newlin's  and  her  telltale  face  quivered  as 
her  mind  flew  on  to  the  concluding  line  of  the  verse. 
"But  John  isn't  a  young  man!"  The  stifled  feeling 
would  push  forth  at  last  and  put  itself  into  words. 
It  would  be  denied  no  longer.  Miss  Newlin  didn't 
understand.  John  wasn't  that  kind  of  a  man!  "I 
hope  and  believe"  the  words  rang  clear  in  her  brain. 
Ought  she,  too,  to  hope  if  she  loved  him?  Oh,  but 
he  didn't  want  to  get  married!  She  knew  he  didn't! 
Hadn't  he  said  he  would  have  a  "better  time"  look- 
ing after  her?  A  host  of  thronging  memories  came 
over  her.  She  had  entered  the  garden  mechanically 
and  was  walking  beside  the  neat  border  from  which 
the  men  had  lately  removed  the  winter  litter.  The 
damp  brown  earth  had  been  raked  over,  and  there, 
beyond,  the  first  plantings  of  peas  and  onion-sets 
were  marked  by  large  white  labels  at  the  ends  of 
the  rows,  and  the  whole  vegetable  garden  had  been 
plowed  and  harrowed. 

"If  it  freezes  hard  it'll  just  be  to  do  over,  I'm 
afraid,"  Patrick,  the  head-gardener,  and  her  good 
friend,  had  said  to  her  the  day  before,  referring  to 
the  neat  enclosure,  while  she  had  watched  him  prun- 
ing the  hardy  roses.  John  had  written  her  that  he 
had  spent  an  afternoon  pruning  and  working  over 
his,  and  her  heart  had  been  full  of  warmth  and 
gladness  as  she  chatted  with  the  responsive  Irishman 
whose  eyes  looked  at  her  with  the  open  admiration 


254  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

he  would  have  bestowed  on  a  rare  orchid  or  an  extra 
fine  melon.  The  sight  of  those  stubby  bushes  made 
a  lump  rise  in  her  throat.  What  a  baby  she  was  to 
be  fretting  over  a  ridiculous  speech!  Her  respect 
for  Miss  Newlin  tottered  for  the  moment.  She 
wanted  John  to  have  every  good  thing  in  the  world! 
(The  lump  would  not  be  scolded  away.)  But  he 
didn't  know  any  women,  "except  older  ones."  A 
sudden  flash  of  memory  brought  Miss  Emma  Ray- 
mond to  her  mind,  and  John's  gentle,  pleased  expres- 
sion as  he  explained  some  cricketing  practice  to  her. 
He  had  looked  so  happy  that  day  and  he  hadn't 
sat  by  her  (Mary)  once,  even  in  the  train.  The 
thought  made  her  stop  stock-still  in  the  middle  of 
the  path.  Her  very  breathing  was  checked.  A 
tight,  strained  feeling  made  her  throat  ache.  She 
tried  to  banish  the  idea  indignantly  as  she  started 
briskly  on.  "Miss  Emma  Raymond!" 

She  had  reached  a  sheltered  corner  made  by  the 
angle  of  a  high  brick  wall  and  splendid  hemlock 
hedge.  In  the  little  nook  the  ground  was  thickly 
bordered  with  purple  and  white  crocuses,  while  here 
and  there  a  more  timid  yellow  one  pushed  up  his  head, 
and  further  around  the  turn  there  was  a  lovely 
clump  of  blue  squills.  She  stooped  to  gather  a  few 
of  the  dainty  little  flowers,  but  surprised  herself  by 
watering  them  with  two  or  three  hot  tears. 

Some  other  girls  were  tempted  out  of  the  house 
by  the  brighter  weather;  she  was  not  going  to  meet 
them!  She  hurried  out  of  the  garden  by  the  opposite 
way  and  struck  straight  across  the  fresh  spring  grass 
of  the  lawn  toward  the  front  of  the  house.  Never 


MARY  FIGHTS  THE  "GREEN  SNAKE"  255 

since  .her  father's  death  had  she  felt  so  lonely.  John 
had  seemed  her  property — her  spiritual  property  at 
least — for  his  mother  had  by  far  the  lion's  share  of 
his  bodily  presence.  But  she  felt  his  thoughts  with 
her  every  day.  "He  understood  all  her  feelings 
and  they  thought  alike  on  almost  everything." 
Miss  Newlin's  assurance  that  she  would  never  be 
set  aside  or  neglected  was  "Job's  comfort."  A 
vision  of  the  intimacy  of  married  life,  as  she  knew 
it  from  books  (poor  child,  she  had  seen  nothing  of 
it  in  real  life,  either  to  confirm  or  banish  her  ideal), 
rose  before  her  mind's  eye.  Married  people  were 
always  together  and  told  each  other  everything, 
and  when  one  felt  badly  the  other  was  always  at 
hand  to  comfort  or  encourage. 

She  had  reached  the  stretch  of  greensward  across 
which  she  and  John  had  walked  that  first  day,  and 
as  she  came  toward  the  drive,  the  sight  of  the  little 
retaining  wall  made  her  feel  John's  arms  again 
around  her,  his  thin  cheek  against  hers.  She  pressed 
her  clumsily  gloved  hands  against  her  bosom  as 
though  to  still  the  pain  there.  It  was  as  real  and 
physical  a  thing  as  a  "stitch"  in  one's  side.  "Would 
John  ever  hold  anyone  else  like  that?  Would  some- 
one else  be  the  'dearest'  to  him?"  She  was  no 
longer  crying.  Pride  checked  the  tears  and  made 
her  try  again  to  swallow  that  choking  lump.  She 
was  so  utterly  forlorn.  She  did  not  really  belong  to 
anyone.  Even  to  put  her  head  in  Catharine's  lap 
would  bring  no  comfort  for  this  ache. 

Ever  since  her  appearance  in  court,  with  its  un- 
veiling of  the  seamy  side  of  child  life  and  the  brutal- 


256  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

ity  possible  to  human  nature,  a  fixed  purpose  had  been 
forming  in  her  mind  to  settle  herself  somewhere  near 
John,  when  school  days  were  over — if  his  mother 
did  not  ask  her  to  come  there  to  live,  as  she  always 
privately  hoped — and  to  be  his  helper  in  the  work 
of  bettering  conditions  for  the  little  helpless  creatures. 
She  had  often  spoken  to  John  of  this  intention,  in 
her  daily  letters.  7hen  she  saw  him,  which  was 
not  often,  the  present  generally  filled  her  mind.  She 
never  spoke  of  her  hope  of  his  mother's  invitation. 
She  felt  that  a  delicate  matter  and  one  that  might 
make  him  sorry  if  it  should  be  unfulfilled;  but  she 
looked  on  the  partnership  as  a  settled  thing;  and  in 
her  earnest  heart  it  was  gradually  crowding  out  the 
half -formed  maiden  dreams  of  the  year  before. 
Marriage  was  less  alluring  as  a  castle  in  the  air  than 
this  philanthropic  life,  working  every  day  with  John. 
An  adapted  King  Arthur  in  up-to-date  tailored  garb 
was  fading  away,  and  the  brothers  and  cousins  of  the 
girls  to  whom  she  was  presented  from  time  to  time 
seemed  much  less  romantic  and  more  ordinary  than 
even  Jack  Wurts,  who  had  added  considerably  to  her 
prestige,  all  unknown  to  herself,  by  two  visits  and 
an  invitation  to  the  Yale  Commencement  festivities 
(where  his  mother  was  to  chaperone  her) ,  not  to  speak 
of  many  offerings  of  sweets,  organic  and  inorganic. 

The  girls  liked  her  all  the  better,  perhaps,  when 
they  found  that  she  was  by  no  means  a  belle  at  the 
little  school  entertainments  where  boys  were  admitted. 
The  modern  young  man  of  twenty  cares  much  less 
for  beauty  than  his  father  or  grandfather  did,  and 
Mary  could  not  dance  and  had  declined  to  be  taught 


MARY  FIGHTS  THE  "GREEN  SNAKE"   257 

yet,  saying  that  she  did  not  feel  like  dancing,  but 
that  she  meant  to  learn  some  day. 

The  girls  could  not  be  made  to  remember  her 
recent  bereavement,  since  she  wore  no  mourning  to 
recall  it  to  their  minds;  and  few  of  them  under- 
stood that  she  had  'that  within  which  passeth  show.' 
Even  Ellen,  who  knew  her  deep  feeling  for  her  father, 
looked  on  the  wearing  of  everyday,  colored  clothes 
as  an  unfortunate  eccentricity.  "Nobody  under- 
stands it,"  she  argued  to  herself. 

Mary's  breaking  of  rules,  which  Catharine  and 
Miss  Newlin  had  both  feared,  had  turned  out  more 
a  bogey  than  a  reality.  She  was  maturing  very 
fast,  and  that  purpose  of  pleasing  Mrs.  Brown  by 
being  "ladylike"  which  she  confided  to  no  one  but 
Catharine,  had  prevented  many  lawless,  if  harmless, 
escapades,  while  her  sense  of  honor  had  never  been 
appealed  to  in  vain.  When  she  reached  the  gate 
now,  the  force  of  already  formed  habit  made  her 
stop  and  turn  about,  in  spite  of  the  turmoil  within 
her. 

The  sinking  sun  was  drawing  the  wind  down  after 
it,  as  one  draws  in  a  kite;  and  the  scudding  clouds 
of  a  half  hour  ago  were  a  dull  canopy  on  the  eastern 
sky,  while  all  the  air  to  westward  was  flooded  with 
ethereal  gold  that  glorified  each  commonest  object. 
Mary  was  suddenly  recalled  to  the  present  and  the 
near  departure  of  the  mail  bag.  She  glanced  hastily 
at  the  little  silver  watch  tucked  in  the  bosom  of  her 
dress  and  quickened  her  pace.  "I  hardly  have  any 
time  at  all,  even  if  I  get  ready  for  supper  in  five 
minutes,"  she  said  to  herself  contritely.  She  had 

17 


258  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

never  once  forgotten  her  little  evening  bulletin  nor 
her  longer  Sunday  letter.  She  felt  a  sensation  of 
panic  as  she  raised  her  desk  lid  and  drew  out  one  of 
the  familiar  envelopes  and  a  tablet. 

DEAR  JOHN — 

The  unwonted  conventional  beginning  stood  alone 
for  one  anxious  minute.  Her  eyes  watched  the  busy 
second-hand  travel  round  his  little  circle  in  the  big 
circle  of  the  clock  face,  then  she  made  a  desperate 
plunge. 

Do  you  see  Miss  Emma  Raymond  often?  When  you  do,  will 
you  remember  me  to  her? 

Why  had  she  written  that?  She  didn't  really 
care!  Her  chin  sank  into  the  hollow  of  her  hand, 
while  her  eyes  were  bent  moodily  on  the  few  lines 
to  which  it  seemed  impossible  to  add  a  word.  Sud- 
denly she  raised  them  to  the  clock  face  again,  and 
this  time  it  sent  the  blood  back  to  her  heart. 

I  got  to  thinking  and  my  time  is  all  gone. 

An  odd  letter  to  send,  but  there  was  no  time  to 
better  it.  She  folded  it  awry,  pushed  it  into  the  wait- 
ing envelope  and  left  the  room. 

John  gazed  bewildered  at  the  little  scrawl  next 
morning.  "You  ought  to  send  Miss  Mary  an  'April 
Fool, ' "  John  Patterson  had  said  to  him  the  day  before, 
and  here  was  an  "April Fool, "indeed.  What  did  it 
mean?  There  was  no  sign  of  a  joke  about  it,  and 
John  took  himself  to  task  for  feeling  hurt  as  well  as 


MARY  FIGHTS  THE  "GREEN  SNAKE"  259 

disappointed.  He  would  not  be  childish!  He  and 
Mary  understood  each  other  too  well  ever  to  take 
offense.  The  next  day's  letter  would  explain;  but 
in  spite  of  himself,  he  felt  that  Mary  had  somehow 
put  a  barrier  between  them,  and  he  could  not  rest 
till  it  was  gone. 

As  he  was  strolling  down  Chestnut  Street  toward 
his  office,  at  a  pace  very  different  from  his  usual 
long,  energetic  stride,  and  with  his  eyes  on  the  pave- 
ment, a  voice  suddenly  fitted  so  aptly  into  his  revery 
that  he  started  and  answered  Miss  Raymond's 
greeting  with  evident  self-consciousness.  At  sight 
of  his  heightened  color,  Miss  Emma's  heart  went 
all  of  a  flutter,  and  as  he  turned  and  walked  back 
with  her  for  a  short  distance,  her  manner  became 
even  more  primly  tremulous  than  its  wont.  When 
he  left  her  with  a  genial  smile  and  a  brisk  "  Wednesday 
afternoon,  then,"  she  was  not  to  be  blamed  that  she 
forgot  a  commission  for  Elsie  and  chose  quite  the 
wrong  shade  of  wool  for  her  own  knitting. 

John,  for  his  part,  went  very  calmly  on  to  the  office 
and  sat  down  to  write  to  his  ward. 

MY  DEAR  MARY: — I  met  Miss  Raymond  just  after  receiving 
your  shabby  little  letter,  and  I  gave  her  your  message,  which 
evidently  pleased  her  very  much.  She  said  she  had  thought 
of  you  often  and  would  like  exceedingly  to  go  out  to  see  you. 
I  told  her  I  would  be  glad  to  take  her  out  next  Wednesday  if 
it  suited  you. 

The  rest  of  the  letter  was  taken  up  with  the  usual 
friendly  intimate  talk.  He  would  not  question  her. 
There  was  probably  nothing  wrong.  It  was  only 
that  she  had  been  occupied  and  had  forgotten  the 


260  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

flight  of  time.  "It  is  wonderful  that  she  has  never 
once  overlooked  the  time  in  all  these  months!"  He 
took  her  letter  out  again  and  looked  at  it  as  though 
he  expected  to  find  some  explanation  hidden  in  it. 
The  prim  "Dear  John,"  standing  alone  on  its  line, 
absolutely  contradicted  his  theory  of  forgetfulness 
and  haste.  He  never  knew  her  to  waste  precious 
time  on  titles  and  addresses.  "I  got  to  thinking." 
That  had  not  happened  before,  either.  Her  writing 
was  much  improved  and  her  facility  had  made  the 
letters  longer  of  late,  while  they  always  bore  witness 
to  more  matter  than  could  be  crowded  comfortably 
into  the  time. 

He  sighed  deeply  as  he  put  this  puzzling  one  with 
the  others  into  a  locked  drawer.  Only  a  few  were 
carried  always  in  the  thin  wallet  which  was  warmed 
by  his  active  heart  by  day  and  his  pillowed  head  by 
night.  "She  has  spoiled  me,"  he  thought.  "I 
must  not  expect  her  confidence  in  every  little  thing. 
There  always  comes  a  time  when  a  girl  begins  to  keep 
her  own  council."  He  did  not  know  how  close  he  had 
come  to  the  solving  of  the  case  in  hand,  and  any  sus- 
picion of  the  actual  truth  would  have  seemed  too 
absurd  for  belief. 

The  Sunday  letter  was  very  different  from  usual  and 
much  shorter.  There  was  a  wistful,  even  a  pathetic, 
note  in  it,  though  the  wording  was  commonplace 
enough  and  the  answer  to  his  suggestion  of  bringing 
Miss  Emma  was  very  cordial. 

Tuesday  and  Wednesday  morning's  notes  were 
even  more  unsatisfying,  and  he  was  burning  to  see 
her  and  try  to  solve  the  riddle  from  her  face.  He 


MARY  FIGHTS  THE  " GREEN  SNAKE"   261 

had  stuck  to  his  resolve  not  to  go  often  to  see  her. 
It  had  been  nearly  four  weeks  since  his  last  visit, 
and  he  felt  that  he  deserved  much  credit  for  unsel- 
fishly sharing  this  one  with  Miss  Raymond. 

Mary  was  at  the  station  to  meet  them,  in  a  new 
tailor-made  suit  of  gray  homespun  that  became 
her  wonderfully,  and  made  her  look  like  a  young 
lady  and  a  fashionable  one.  The  close-fitting  basque, 
buttoned  down  the  front  with  no  adornment,  showed 
to  perfection  the  graceful  lines  of  her  half-developed, 
girlish  figure,  which  was  larger  in  the  waist  than  was 
at  that  time  popular  with  young  girls.  She  had  been 
guided  in  her  toilet  by  her  own  native  good  sense 
and  Ellen's  wise  example,  and  the  result  gave  John 
a  shock  as  she  came  forward  to  meet  them,  and  made 
his  heart  beat  uncomfortably  fast.  No  wonder  the 
letters  were  different!  His  greeting  was  quieter  than 
usual  and  he  fell  back  and  let  the  two  walk  ahead 
of  him  up  the  path  to  the  gate. 

Miss  Raymond  thought  Mary  in  fine  spirits,  her 
cheeks  were  so  bright  and  her  eyes  so  lustrous  as  she 
pointed  out  each  object  of  interest  and  gave  accounts 
of  their  daily  doings  with  a  volubility  which  left 
her  listener  no  more  than  time  for  "Yes"  or  "No." 
Inside  the  gate  they  met  Miss  Newlin  in  grave  con- 
sultation with  Patrick,  but  she  broke  off  and  came 
forward  at  once  with  the  cordial  smile  she  always 
had  for  John.  Mary  presented  Miss  Raymond, 
and  as  the  two  ladies  fell  into  an  interchange  of 
polite  commonplaces  (for  Miss  Newlin  kept  a  stock 
of  these  on  hand  for  certain  occasions)  and  Miss 
Emma  modestly  recalled  to  her  memory  a  previous 


262  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

meeting,  John  turned  to  Mary  and  compelled  her 
eyes  to  meet  his  for  the  first  time.  "Yes,  there  was 
something  very  much  amiss." 

"We  look  very  nice  in  our  new  spring  clothes," 
he  said,  smiling  as  he  looked  her  up  and  down  from 
the  blue  bow  at  her  throat  where  the  basque  was 
slightly  cut  away  to  the  neatly  but  sensibly  shod 
feet. 

She  answered  the  smile  with  even  heightened 
color.  "It  cost  too  much,  I'm  afraid,"  she  said, 
her  old  habit  of  confidence  stronger  than  any  new 
reserve.  "Sixty-five  dollars!"  looking  at  him  to 
see  the  effect  of  the  shocking  intelligence. 

"But  it  will  wear  a  long  time  and  clean  well.  There 
is  no  more  serviceable  material.  Only  you  must  try 
not  to  outgrow  it."  He  was  watching  her  face  nar- 
rowly under  cover  of  his  bright  smile. 

"Outgrow  it!"  she  exclaimed  with  a  touch  of 
offended  dignity.  "Why,  I've  been  done  growing 
for  ever  so  long!" 

"Have  you?"  he  asked  absently. 

Miss  Newlin  had  moved  on  toward  the  house  with 
her  companion,  but  John  did  not  notice.  The  line 
of  his  lips  was  straight  now,  as  he  stood  gazing  into 
Mary's  eyes  with  a  yearning  effort  to  read  what  he 
saw  there.  He  seemed  to  hold  them  against  her  will 
until  he  forced  slow  tears  up  from  their  depths.  She 
turned  quickly  from  him  to  follow  the  others,  but  he 
caught  her  hand  and  held  it  fast. 

"Mary,  there  is  something  wrong  with  you.  Can't 
you  tell  me?"  he  asked  as  he  allowed  her  to  move 
on  slowly  in  spite  of  her  evident  haste  to  break  from 


MARY  FIGHTS  THE  "GREEN  SNAKE"   263 

him.  No  answer.  Her  face  was  half  turned  away, 
but  he  saw  it  quiver.  He  loosed  the  hand. 

"Forgive  me.  I  won't  tease  you,"  he  said  in  a  con- 
strained voice;  but  she  turned  quickly  at  the  sound 
and  saw  his  face.  It  made  an  instant  change  in  hers. 

She  came  back  to  him  at  once  and  clasped  her 
fingers  around  his  dejectedly  hanging  ones,  which 
responded  with  the  suddenness  of  electricity.  They 
were  passing  the  very  spot  so  vivid  in  both  their  mem- 
ories. Each  knew  that  the  other  was  remembering 
what  seemed  ages  ago  and  of  a  past  and  gone  epoch 
in  their  lives. 

"John,"  Mary  said,  in  her  old  headlong  fashion, 
crimsoning  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  "there  was  some- 
thing the  matter,  but  it  was  silly.  I  don't  mind  it 
now,  really.  I'm  not  going  to  think  about  it  again." 

It  was  spoken  with  conviction,  but  John  was  not 
quite  satisfied.  "Nothing  is  silly  if  it  can  trouble 
you,"  he  said;  but  seeing  her  agitation,  he  forbore 
further  questions  in  spite  of  his  intense  wish  to  know. 

At  that  moment  Miss  Emma  turned  to  speak  to 
Mary  and  her  eyes  fell  on  a  picture  that  she  had  seen 
once  before  on  the  city  street;  but  Mary  was  rose-red 
and  John's  face  was  grave  and  bore  a  look  of  ill  con- 
cealed annoyance  at  the  interruption. 

Miss  Newlin  gave  them  a  very  keen  glance.  "  What 
a  child  she  is!"  she  said  to  herself  with  a  smile  and 
half  suppressed  sigh. 

The  visit  was  not  a  very  long  one,  and  John  had 
no  chance  for  a  word  with  Mary  alone  till,  having 
helped  Miss  Raymond  up  the  steps  of  the  car,  he 
lingered  one  moment  before  the  train  moved  off. 


264  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"Mary,  you  are  not  offended  with  me?"  he  asked 
in  a  low,  hurried  voice. 

She  looked  up  quickly  and  read  the  pain  her  reti- 
cence was  giving  him. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said  as  she  drew  back  while  the 
train  started  and  John  swung  himself  up  by  the  rail- 
ing. "I — "  he  was  waiting  on  the  lowest  step  as 
he  was  carried  slowly  from  her.  "I  was  just  jealous!" 
The  impetuous  words  seemed  torn  from  her  as  she 
felt  her  chance  for  an  understanding  disappear. 
Then  she  turned  and  fled  without  one  backward  look. 

Miss  Emma,  who  was  trying  in  vain  to  attract 
her  attention  through  the  car  window,  and  waving 
an  energetic  but  wasted  good-bye,  turned  back  as 
John  took  his  seat  beside  her  and  glanced  curiously 
up  at  his  face.  He  looked  as  though  he  had  dropped 
from  the  clouds,  but  apparently  he  had  dropped  on 
his  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Miss  NEWLIN'S  DIPLOMACY  Almost  FAILS 

JOHN  found  himself  in  much  the  state  of  mind 
of  the  man  who,  consumed  with  curiosity  to 
know  how  his  fellow  traveler  lost  a  leg,  is  prom- 
ised the  desired  information  on  condition  that  he 
ask  no  further  question  and  is  tersely  told  that  "it 
was  bit  off."  But  John  had  the  advantage,  in  so  far 
that  he  had  made  no  promises,  and  had  only  the 
"inordinate  slowness"  of  the  United  States  mail  ser- 
vice (or  so  he  hoped)  between  him  and  enlightenment. 
As  he  talked  with  moderate  intelligence  to  Miss 
Emma,  his  mind  was  repeating  the  words  of  that 
first  singular  note.  Needless  to  say,  he  knew  it  by 
heart,  with  every  comma  and  pause;  but  the  con- 
nection of  ideas  was  too  incredible  and  bewildering. 
He  would  not  let  himself  think  it  out,  but  his  heart 
performed  antics  in  the  next  few  days  which  would 
have  astonished  those  who  saw  him  going  steadily 
about  his  business. 

He  wrote  a  few  lines  to  Mary  that  evening  and 
posted  them  himself. 

Write  to  me  soon  and  tell  me  what  you  meant  to-day,  and  of 
whom  or  what  you  could  possibly  be  "jealous."  I  feel  I  must 
have  misunderstood  the  word,  yet,  surely,  that  was  what  you 
said.  I  cannot  write  more  till  I  hear  from  you. 

(265) 


266  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

He  was  not  surprised  at  the  absence  of  the  well- 
known  envelope  next  morning,  but  he  seized  it  eagerly 
the  following  day.  She  had  got  his  note  and  it  had 
pleased  her;  he  could  read  that  between  the  lines, 
and  she  confessed  to  having  been  very  silly,  but  very 
unhappy. 

I  will  write  you  a  long  letter  on  Sunday.  I  couldn't  tell  you 
in  a  little  time.  Now  I  have  let  you  know  what  a  baby  I  am, 
I  must  go  on  and  explain. 

So  John  tried  to  possess  his  soul  in  patience  and 
finally  reduced  his  temperature  a  degree  or  two  by 
recalling  a  small  boy  of  seven  who  had  been  roman- 
tically devoted  to  Margaret  at  eighteen,  and  had 
really  made  himself  ill  with  jealousy  of  her  grown-up 
admirers.  He  opened  the  thick  letter  when  it  came 
with  studied  deliberation,  but  his  hands  would 
tremble.  They  grew  quiet/  as  he  read.  Mary  told 
him  of  Maud  Harvey's  suggestion  and  her  own 
rejection  of  the  idea;  of  Miss  Newlin's  extraordinary 
words  and  the  feeling  they  had  roused  in  her. 

She  said  she  "believed  you  would  marry"  and  she  meant  it 
too! 

John  was  too  much  astonished  at  this  prophecy 
to  go  on  at  once  with  his  reading.  His  mind  was 
trying  to  discover  Miss  Newlin's  grounds  for  such  a 
speech. 

I  ask  God  in  all  my  prayers  to  give  you  every  blessing  possible, 
but  when  I  thought  that  getting  married  was  one,  and  when 
I  remembered  that  you  seemed  to  like  Miss  Emma  very  much, 
I  tried  to  pray  for  it,  if  you  really  wanted  it,  but  I  couldn't. 


MISS  NEWLIN'S  DIPLOMACY         267 

I  felt  sure  God  would  not  want  me  to  say  something  when  he 
could  see  into  my  heart  and  know  I  was  praying  for  what  I 
didn't  honestly  want  to  happen;  so  I  haven't  mentioned  your 
name  lately.  I  have  only  prayed  with  all  my  might  to  be 
unselfish.  But  when  I  got  your  note  and  you  seemed  so  sur- 
prised, I  knew  there  was  a  mistake.  I  felt  it  even  before  you 
went  away  on  Wednesday,  for  you  looked  at  me  so  sorrowfully, 
and  oh!  you  don't  know  what  a  difference  it  made  to  me. 

I  think  so  much  about  that  space  in  your  office  where  you 
said  I  could  have  my  desk,  and  how  I  can  hunt  up  things  for 
you  out  of  your  law  books  and  make  notes  for  you,  and  do 
hundreds  of  little  things;  and  I  get  so  happy  thinking  about  it, 
and  anxious  for  the  time  to  come,  I  can  hardly  wait.  Do  you 
really  think  I  must  keep  on  studying  at  school  till  I  am  twenty? 
I  would  rather  study  law — at  least,  enough  to  be  a  real  help 
to  you — and  I  study  all  my  lessons  with  reference  to  the  help 
they  can  be  to  us  in  our  work  later  on. 

But  if  you  were  married  it  would  be  all  different.  You  would 
always  be  hurrying  to  get  away  to  your  wife,  and,  oh,  John! 
Miss  Emma  isn't  nearly  good  enough  for  you,  and  she  is  too 
old.  I  dare  to  say  it  now  because  I  am  sure  you  don't  love  her. 
Nobody  is  nice  enough  for  you!  Couldn't  we  promise  we  would 
neither  of  us  ever  get  married,  but  just  always  work  together 
and  try  to  make  the  world  better?  We  have  a  patriotic  club 
here  now,  and  we  are  all  going  to  do  something  for  the  United 
States  when  we  can.  Oh,  I  wrote  you  that  before! 

I  used  to  think  I  would  want  to  get  married,  but  the  older 
I  get  the  less  I  care  about  it  and  the  more  I  long  to  really  go  to 
work  with  you. 

John  had  come  home  from  his  office  very  early, 
being  disappointed  of  his  expected  letter  in  the 
lunch-time  delivery,  and  knowing  his  mother  to  be 
engaged  for  the  afternoon.  He  had  met  the  postman 
at  the  door  and  retired  promptly  to  his  den  with 
his  treasure.  How  many  times  he  read  it  over  we 
need  not  inquire,  but  certain  it  is  that  three  separate, 


268  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

closely  written  letters  found  their  way  to  the  fire 
and  his  mother's  entrance  prevented  the  beginning  of 
a  fourth. 

In  spite  of  his  efforts  to  talk  that  evening,  she 
found  him  preoccupied;  but  whatever  might  be  on 
his  mind,  she  decided,  on  glancing  often  at  his  ab- 
stracted face,  that  it  was  nothing  painful  or  worrying. 
When  she  drew  out  her  watch  and  wound  it  at  half- 
past  nine,  John  knew  that  his  time  had  come;  and 
bidding  her  an  affectionate  good-night  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  betook  himself  again  to  his  sanctum. 
His  head  rested  on  his  hands  for  many  minutes 
before  he  wrote  the  following  short  note: 

MY  DEAR  LITTLE  GIRL: — I  thank  you  more  than  I  can  say 
for  your  frank  and  full  explanation.  It  seems  extraordinary 
that  you  who  know  me  could  imagine  that  Miss  Emma  Ray- 
mond, or  anyone  else  of  my  choosing,  could  ever  come  between 
you  and  me.  We  need  make  no  promises,  for  I  shall  not  change, 
and  you  are  too  young  to  know  what  you  will  feel  one  day. 
Give  me  all  the  help  and  companionship  and  love  you  can  with- 
out robbing  someone  else,  when  that  time  comes;  but  never 
doubt  again  that  I  shall  be  always  and  altogether  and  only 
yoars.  J.  B. 

He  went  out  and  posted  the  formal  little  note 
before  giving  himself  time  to  reconsider. 

Thus  with  a  few  pen-strokes  did  he  undo  all  Miss 
Newlin's  neat  work.  Well,  perhaps  not  quite  all. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

TELLING  How  JOHN  CAME  TO  BE  INVITED  TO  A 
BIRTHDAY  PARTY 

A'TER  all  the  confusion  and  bustle  of  packing 
and  leave-taking,  of  buying  of  tickets  and 
checking  of  trunks,  Mary  found  herself  sit- 
ting beside  Ellen  in  the  Bristol  train  on  the  way 
to  the  first  visit  of  her  life  among  people  of  her  own 
age.  John  had  met  them  at  Broad  Street  Station 
and  transferred  them  from  one  train  to  the  other  with 
the  brightest  of  faces  and  most  cordial  good  wishes 
for  their  holiday.  Mary  herself  was  full  of  anticipa- 
tion and  sure  of  a  "good  time."  She  had  met  Ellen's 
mother  several  times  during  the  term  and  they  were 
already  good  friends;  and  she  had  seen  her  elder 
brother  and  two  young  sisters.  She  would  not  feel 
strange  in  that  cordial,  happy  circle;  but  as  she 
pressed  her  face  to  the  window  pane  of  the  moving 
car  and  caught  a  last  glimpse  of  John;  as  she  saw 
his  waving  hat  fall  listlessly  at  his  side  while  the  smile 
faded  out  of  his  face,  a  quick  pang  of  something 
like  homesickness  shot  through  her.  Ellen  knew 
what  was  passing  in  her  mind  and  hastened  to  say 
in  an  unobservant,  matter-of-fact  voice,  as  she  read- 
justed her  hand-bag  beside  her  feet,  "I  just  love 
your  guardian,  Mary,  and  I  do  wish  Mother  and 

(269) 


270  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

Father  could  meet  him.  Don't  you  think  he  would 
come  out  to  dinner  with  us  one  night?  If  we  only 
had  two  Sundays  we  could  ask  him  for  one,  but  of 
course  he  has  his  own  plans  for  Easter." 

Mary's  pleased  face  at  once  rewarded  the  kind 
impulse  and  made  it  a  fixed  purpose. 

"I  wonder  if  he  would  care  to  come  for  my  birth- 
day party,"  Ellen  mused  aloud.  She  was  to  celebrate 
her  eighteenth  birthday  the  Tuesday  in  Easter  week, 
though  the  anniversary  itself  fell  on  the  Monday. 
But  her  cousin,  Philip  Dillwyn,  whose  holidays  were 
all  spent  with  the  Logan  household,  came  of  age 
on  Wednesday,  and  so  they  had  compromised  on  a 
double  celebration  of  a  modest  sort  on  Tuesday. 
Ellen  knew  that  a  large  party  would  have  been  pain- 
ful to  Mary,  and  with  the  unselfish  tact  which  was 
her  strongest  trait,  she  had  written  her  mother  of  her 
wish  to  have  just  an  informal  good  time  and  not  a 
dinner-party  or  dance.  They  were  to  have  a  double 
cake  with  candles  on  top  and  all  the  orthodox  sym- 
bolic things  inside,  and  they  were  to  have  all  the  jokes 
and  toasts  and  games  they  could  think  of,  "but  noth- 
ing formal." 

"Oh,  Ellen,  wouldn't  it  be  perfect  if  he  -would 
come,"  Mary  said  excitedly.  "But  he  never  goes 
anywhere,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  quieting  after- 
thought. 

"I  think  he  would  go  anywhere  and  everywhere 
to  see  you,"  Ellen  answered  with  an  arch  little  smile 
that  was  quite  frank.  Like  everyone  who  saw  John 
in  his  ward's  company,  she  had  an  intuition  that 
his  love  for  Mary  was  not  purely  paternal,  and  she 


JOHN  INVITED  TO  BIRTHDAY  PARTY  271 

felt  the  common  stirring  of  regret  and  sympathy, 
but  considered  him  quite  out  of  the  question  in  any 
other  role  than  that  which  he  filled  at  present.  Mary 
was  far  too  beautiful  and  had  too  interesting  a  future 
before  her  ever  to  marry  a  man  of  her  father's  age, 
and  a  sort  of  philanthropic  recluse  into  the  bargain. 
Yet,  Ellen  had  told  the  simple  truth  when  she  said 
"she  just  loved  him." 

Philip  Dillwyn  was  on  the  platform  as  the 
train  drew  up,  and  instantly  possessed  himself  of 
their  bags  with  only  a  hasty,  if  interested,  acknowl- 
edgment of  Ellen's  introduction  to  her  friend.  He 
had  no  time  for  handshakes;  he  scarcely  touched  his 
cap,  so  eager  was  he  to  be  serviceable. 

"Edward  is  in  the  cart,"  he  explained  to  Ellen; 
then  seeing  her  about  to  be  waylaid  by  a  gushing 
girl  acquaintance,  he  moved  on  through  the  little 
station  with  Mary.  They  made  a  very  handsome 
pair,  for  Philip  was  as  perfect  a  specimen  of  mascu- 
line beauty  as  Mary  of  feminine.  They  had  heard 
much  of  each  other,  but  this  was  their  first  meeting, 
and  they  were  too  full  of  mutual  curiosity  and  interest 
even  to  be  self-conscious.  Philip  was  always  conscious 
of  himself,  as  one  who  was  secure  of  pleasing.  He 
knew  he  had  only  to  smile  to  call  forth  an  answer- 
ing smile;  and  in  girls  of  Mary's  age  it  was 
,  always  accompanied  by  a  blush  or  preening  of  coquette 
feathers.  Mary  blushed,  it  is  true,  but  the  frank, 
clear  gaze  that  met  his  as  she  fell  readily  into  conver- 
sation with  him  was  quite  different  from  the  glances 
he  was  used  to.  He  felt  aroused  and  stimulated  in 
a  moment.  Edward  did  not  get  off  his  high  perch 


272  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

on  the  driver's  seat  as  the  two  came  out  the  back 
door  of  the  station  close  beside  him.  He  was  not 
over-gallant,  and  "she  had  Philip  to  boost  her  up 
and  put  in  the  bags." 

He  had  grudgingly  agreed  with  Ellen,  on  his  first 
visit  to  the  school,  that  Mary  was  "pretty  good- 
looking,"  but  he  rather  scorned  pretty  girls  and  con- 
sidered his  sister  "Nell,"  who  was  no  beauty,  worth 
a  dozen  of  them. 

He  scanned  the  visitor  closely  as  he  raised  his  hat 
and  smiled  a  polite  welcome;  and  then  asked  if  she 
cared  to  come  in  front  with  him.  "Oh,  no,"  she  said 
calmly,  showing  what  even  Edward  considered  "nice" 
dimples.  "Ellen  will  want  to  sit  with  you."  He 
gave  her  a  rather  surprised  glance,  but  said  nothing; 
and  at  that  moment  Ellen  joined  them.  The  brother 
and  sister  were  enough  alike  to  seem  circumstantial 
evidence  of  the  personal  appearance  of  at  least  one 
parent.  They  were  both  undersized  and  colorless 
as  to  hair,  skin  and  eyes;  and  the  daintiness  of  Ellen's 
physical  make-up  would  have  leaned  to  insignificance 
in  him,  but  for  an  expression  of  strong  intelligence 
and  purpose.  They  greeted  each  other  without 
effusion,  but  it  would  not  have  taken  a  close  observer 
to  see  that  they  were  as  congenial  in  mind  as  they 
were  alike  in  body;  and  Ellen's  pleased  acknowledg- 
ment of  Mary's  modestly  mounting  to  the  back 
seat  showed  how  much  she  enjoyed  the  prospect  of 
her  brother's  neighborhood  on  the  mile  or  more  of 
drive  to  the  house. 

Mrs.  Logan  and  the  younger  girls,  Priscilla  and 
Sophie,  were  watching  for  the  cart,  and  received  Ellen 


JOHN  INVITED  TO  BIRTHDAY  PARTY  273 

with  a  jubilant  demonstration,  while  they  were  exceed- 
ingly cordial  to  Mary.  But  it  was  not  till  dinner- 
time that  she  was  introduced  to  her  host — a  punc- 
tiliously courteous,  very  retiring  man,  who  left  the 
helm  of  the  household  ship  absolutely  in  the  hands 
of  his  wife,  in  return  for  a  larger  share  of  his  own  sweet 
will  than  falls  to  the  lot  of  most  men.  He  was  tall 
and  lean,  with  black  hair  and  moustache,  an  aquiline 
nose  and  prominent  cheek  bones.  He  gave  two  fin- 
gers of  an  exquisitely  formed  hand  to  Mary  to  shake, 
and  she  went  through  that  ceremony  with  a  sort 
of  trepidation,  as  though  she  had  been  given  a  rare 
vase  to  hold;  but  his  bright,  dark  eyes  had  a  twinkle 
of  kindliness  as  well  as  of  humor.  He  turned  them 
upon  her  frequently  as  she  sat  at  his  right  hand 
during  dinner,  and  she  felt  he  was  trying  to  recall 
some  half-forgotten  face  or  tracing  a  hidden  like- 
ness. He  talked  little,  and  what  he  said  was  common- 
place; but  he  looked  with  genial  enjoyment  on  the 
bright  faces  to  right  and  left,  and  listened  with  a 
pleased  smile  to  the  buzz  of  talk  that  made  his  own 
taciturnity  seem  almost  perforce.  He  politely  offered 
Mary  a  share  of  the  little  private  dishes  with  which 
he  was  surrounded,  as  the  meal  went  on.  It  seemed 
that  he  was  a  dyspeptic  and  could  not  eat  anything 
cooked  with  butter  or  cream,  and  that  he  also  had 
strong  likes  and  dislikes,  which  his  devoted  wife 
strictly  regarded. 

Mary  entered  with  complete  enjoyment  into  the 
gay  chat  and  found  an  unconscious  stimulant  in  the 
admiring  looks  turned  upon  her  from  all  eyes,  par- 
ticularly in  those  from  the  very  handsome  pair  oppo- 

18 


274  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

site  her.  Mr.  Logan  smiled  shrewdly  to  himself 
as  he  poured  tea  from  a  special  little  brownware 
pot,  and  recorded  the  fact  that  Philip  was  "taking 
notice." 

By  the  time  they  rose  from  the  table,  Philip  had 
made  up  his  mind  on  one  point.  "Say,  Sophie," 
he  said,  as  he  grasped  the  arm  of  his  fourteen-year- 
old  cousin,  on  quitting  the  dining-room,  "would 
Aunt  Priscilla  mind  our  taking  up  the  rug  in  the  par- 
lor and  having  a  little  dance,  just  ourselves;  and 
you  play  us  a  couple  of  waltzes,  that's  a  dear." 

"Ellen's  lots  more  particular  about  Holy  Week 
than  Mother  is;  you'd  better  ask  her,"  Sophie  an- 
swered, with  ready  yielding  to  his  blandishments 
for  her  own  part. 

"Oh,  no,  I  think  not,  Philip,"  Ellen  said,  regret- 
ful of  thwarting  him  in  so  modest  a  wish;  "and 
anyhow,  Mary  doesn't  dance." 

"Don't  you?"  he  asked,  with  sudden  loss  of  inter- 
est in  his  program.  "Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know  how,"  was  the  simple  answer; 
but  it  opened  his  eyes  an  eighth  of  an  inch  wider. 
Mary  colored  and  looked  mortified  at  the  admission. 
She  could  not,  off-hand,  explain  the  reason. 

"Oh,  if  that's  all,  we'll  teach  her;  won't  we,  Ellen? 
Come  on,  let's  have  a  dancing  class  here  in  the  hall. 
We'll  do  without  music  for  religion's  sake." 

"Philip,  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  that  way," 
Ellen  said  gently,  but  with  evident  annoyance. 

"Oh,  come,  don't  be  proper,  Nell."  He  smiled 
and  patted  her  on  the  back,  and  she  yielded  in  so 
far  as  to  return  the  smile.  He  was  used  to  gaining 


JOHN  INVITED  TO  BIRTHDAY  PARTY  275 

his  point  with  all  womankind,  and  Mary  was  to  be 
no  exception,  it  seemed. 

"I  don't  know  that  Mary  wants  to  be  taught," 
Ellen  said,  looking  questioningly  at  her  friend. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  Mary  answered  readily,  and  the 
lesson  began  forthwith;  proving  her  a  very  intelli- 
gent pupil,  if  not  so  light  on  her  feet  as  her  free  and 
graceful  movements  at  other  times  would  have  seemed 
to  promise.  Once,  by  way  of  illustration,  Philip 
caught  Ellen  round  the  waist  and  waltzed  down 
the  hall  with  her,  half  against  her  will.  It  was  only 
a  small  half,  for  Ellen  was  like  a  piece  of  thistledown 
on  her  feet,  and  yielded  to  her  cousin's  leading  with 
a  gradual  abandonment  to  the  rhythmic  charm  of  the 
dance  that  was  a  revelation  to  Mary. 

"I  could  never  in  the  world  dance  like  that!" 
she  said  with  grave  conviction.  "Your  feet  are  so 
little  and  so  light,  they  don't  seem  to  rest  on  the 
floor  at  all.  I  could  watch  you  any  length  of  time, 
but  it  discourages  me  dreadfully.  I  guess  I  have 
what  they  call  a  Quaker  foot,  or  else  it's  a  Quaker 
head,  for  I  don't  keep  good  time." 

"Then  I'll  stop  at  once,"  Ellen  said,  slipping  from 
Philip's  arm,  in  spite  of  his  effort  to  keep  her,  and 
running  laughing  to  her  father's  "snuggery"  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  A  respite  followed  her  exit,  while 
the  younger  girls  hung  admiringly  around  Mary, 
and  Edward  followed  his  sister. 

"I  was  just  wishing  for  you,  dear,"  Mrs.  Logan 
said,  as  Ellen  came  swooping  into  the  room  like  a 
swallow.  There  was  evidently  no  awe  attached  to 
this  "den,"  nor  was  its  proprietor  looked  on  so  much 


276  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

in  the  light  of  a  father  as  of  a  petted  elder  brother. 
They  rarely  consulted  him  seriously;  and  their 
mother  usually  saved  him  even  the  trouble  of  express- 
ing his  own  opinions  aloud. 

"I  was  just  telling  'Daddy'  of  your  wish  to  ask 
Mary's  guardian,  Mr.  Brown,  to  your  birthday  party," 
she  said,  "and  he  thinks,  as  I  do,  that  it  will  be  a 
mistake.  It  was  like  you  to  plan  it,  but  an  older 
man  would  spoil  your  fun  very  much.  He  would 
be  like  a  fish  out  of  water,  I'm  afraid." 

Ellen  was  stooping  over  her  father,  who  half  re- 
clined on  an  old-fashioned  haircloth  heirloom  of  a 
chair  with  adjustable  back  and  leg  rests.  She  was 
fingering  the  sleek  black  hair  above  his  forehead, 
and  giving  him  little  pecks  of  kisses  in  a  half -caressing, 
half-joking,  fashion.  She  straightened  herself  at 
once  and  looked  at  her  mother  with  a  troubled 
expression. 

"But,  Mother,  I  spoke  to  Mary  about  it,  and  I 
wouldn't  disappoint  her  for  anything!  She  is  count- 
ing on  it  already,  I  know." 

"I  don't  mean  to  give  up  asking  him,  dear.  It 
would  be  very  nice  to  have  him  come  out,  but  when 
we  are  by  ourselves.  Mary  would  have  more  chance 
to  enjoy  him  too,  and  I  know  she  will  understand  if 
you  explain  to  her  that  there  are  just  three  or  four 
youngsters  of  your  own  ages  coming." 

"Why,  the  children  are  to  be  at  the  table,  aren't 
they?"  Ellen  asked  quickly.  "I  should  hate  a 
party  without  them;  and  as  for  Mary's  understand- 
ing, Mother,  you  don't  know  her  as  well  as  I  do. 
She  isn't  the  least  bit  touchy,  and  if  I  told  her  we 


JOHN  INVITED  TO  BIRTHDAY  PARTY  277 

were  afraid  of  being  crowded  at  the  table,  or  some- 
thing like  that,  she  would  agree  at  once  without 
another  thought;  but  as  for  understanding  that  he 
could  ever  be  a  misfit  in  any  company,  or  that  being 
the  same  age  has  anything  to  do  with  enjoying  peo- 
ple, she  would  be  perfectly  astonished.  I  am  sure 
she  would  feel  that  not  to  have  Mr.  Brown,  if  we  could 
get  him,  would  be  like  shutting  out  the  sun.  She 
just  adores  the  ground  he  walks  on,  and  he  really 
is  awfully  nice." 

"Well,  it  is  to  be  a  very  informal  time,  and  it  is 
your  party  and  Philip's,  so,  if  you  think  he  will  not 
mind,  I  will  write  to  Mr.  Brown  this  evening,"  Mrs. 
Logan  said  with  an  affectionate  smile  at  Ellen's 
warmth. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  whether  she's 
pretty  or  not,"  Edward,  Jr.,  broke  in,  "but  I  bet 
she's  the  real  thing!"  It  was  a  number  one  com- 
pliment coming  from  that  quarter,  and  caused  Mr. 
Logan  to  look  with  amused  surprise  at  his  one  son 
who  was  so  utterly  unlike  him  in  every  way  except  in 
reserve. 

"It  is  a  curious  thing,"  he  said.  "If  anyone  had 
asked  me  a  couple  of  hours  ago  what  Dick  Farnham 
looked  like,  I  should  have  said  I  hadn't  the  least 
recollection  of  him.  (He  came  to  Haverford  the  year 
I  was  leaving,  and  he  was  a  mere  boy.)  But  every 
time  I  looked  at  Miss  Farnham  during  dinner,  his 
face  kept  coming  back  till  I  can  see  him  now  as 
plainly  as  I  see  you.  And  the  funny  part  is  that  she 
doesn't  look  much  like  him.  There  must  be  some 
expression  very  like  him  to  recall  him  so  vividly  to 


278  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

my  mind  after  all  these  years.  I  was  afraid  she 
noticed  my  staring  at  her." 

"I  guess  she  gets  used  to  it,"  Edward  said,  with 
a  grim  little  smile.  "Philip  never  took  his  eyes  off 
her." 

"I  hope  you  and  Philip  won't  come  to  blows  over 
her,"  his  father  said,  teasingly,  as  he  took  up  the  novel 
he  had  dropped  on  his  knee  at  Ellen's  onslaught. 
He  knew  it  excited  Edward's  scorn  to  be  accused 
of  any  fancy  for  a  girl,  and  his  dark  eyes  twinkled 
as  he  saw  his  son  turn  to  poke  the  fire  with  a  most 
significant  grunt. 

Mrs.  Logan  seated  herself  at  the  desk,  where  she 
did  much  of  her  husband's  business  for  him,  and  asked 
Ellen  for  Mr.  Brown's  address. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
JOHN  GETS  THE  RING 

fff~\  H,  Mary,  you  do  look  too  lovely  in  that  dress! 

1       J  It  suits  you  exactly." 

Ellen  had  come  to  get  her  friend  on  the 
birthday  evening.  The  dress  was  a  present  from  Mrs. 
Wharton,  who  had  begged  Mary  to  let  her  give  her 
this  "for  the  party,"  and  had  shown  such  gratifica- 
tion at  the  result  that  she  almost  made  Mary  feel 
herself  a  benefactress.  It  was  of  white  crepe-de-Chine, 
simply  but  correctly  made  according  to  the  fashion 
of  the  time,  with  an  over-skirt  draped  above  a  "foun- 
dation" of  white  silk,  a  modest  amount  of  that 
bouffant  effect  in  the  back  which  the  vulgar  have 
designated  a  "bustle,"  and  sleeves  that  showed  the 
round,  white  arms  half  way  to  the  elbow.  She  gave 
herself  a  scrutiny  in  the  glass  as  she  turned. 

"And  so  do  you  in  yours,"  she  answered.  Ellen 
did  indeed  look  almost  pretty  hi  a  pink  silk  gown 
with  trimmings  of  soft  lace,  and  a  bunch  of  rose-buds 
at  the  corner  of  the  square-cut  corsage.  (It  was  her 
first  low-necked  gown.)  Her  cheeks  had  a  soft  flush 
of  excitement  and  her  eyes  were  several  shades  darker 
than  their  wonted  pale  blue-gray.  The  color  deepened 
as  Philip  met  her  on  the  stair-landing  with  an 
unfeigned  exclamation  of  approval.  His  face  was  very 

(279) 


280  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

expressive  as  Mary  appeared  behind  her,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

"Oh,  isn't  that  the  carriage?"  Mary  cried,  pausing 
to  listen  to  the  sound  of  nearing  wheels,  and  then 
darting  down  straight  toward  the  front  door.  Philip 
glanced  at  her  radiant  face  as  she  sped  by  him. 

"Is  she  as  fond  of  him  as  all  that?"  he  thought, 
with  a  jealous  pang  that  died  the  minute  his  eyes 
encountered  the  tall  figure  ushered  in  by  a  flood 
of  light  from  the  setting  sun.  "He  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  a  man  so  old  and  ugly  as  that!" 

Philip  was  a  lord  of  creation  who  brooked  no  rivals 
where  he  was  pleased  to  give  the  rein  to  his  fancy, 
but  he  decided  that  she  might  beam  on  this  guardian 
of  hers  as  brightly  as  she  liked.  She  was  a  "vision 
of  delight"  that  seemed  to  dazzle  John  as  she  stood 
in  the  golden  glory.  His  manner  was  constrained 
and  formal  as  he  turned  to  speak  to  Ellen,  his  eye 
resting  a  moment,  in  passing,  on  Philip's  waiting  figure. 

The  latter's  introduction  to  him  was  hardly  accom- 
plished when  a  young  man  who  had  driven  up  with 
John  from  the  train  rushed  at  Adonis  and  grasped 
him  by  both  arms,  while  a  hubbub  of  laughing  and 
joking  ensued  that  was  interrupted  by  Mrs.  Logan 
and  Edward,  Jr. 

Quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  library  was  buzzing 
with  merriment.  The  three  guests,  besides  John, 
were  young  habitues  of  the  house,  on  the  most  familiar 
of  terms  with  all  the  family;  and  the  laughing  and 
talking  verged  on  the  boisterous. 

Mrs.  Logan  glanced  over  to  where  her  son  stood 
talking  to  John  with  the  deferential  courtesy  one  shows 


JOHN   GETS  THE  RING  281 

to  an  older  man  whom  one  "delights  to  honor;"  but 
his  face  had  that  look  of  effort  to  concentrate  which 
is  unmistakable  in  spite  of  perfect  manners,  and  he 
could  not  help  overhearing  what  went  on  around 
him.  Mary  was  in  demand  at  once,  and  was  in  gay 
spirits,  excited  by  her  new  young-lady  dress  and  by 
the  admiring  glances  of  the  newcomers.  She  was  not 
unmindful  of  her  guardian,  but  had  no  chance  to 
speak  to  him  yet,  and  she  would  not  guess  that  a 
short  delay  would  matter  much. 

"I  wish  Edward  would  hurry  up  and  come,"  Mrs. 
Logan  said  to  herself,  looking  anxiously  for  her  hus- 
band. "It  is  just  as  I  expected.  He  really  is  a  very 
distinguished  looking  man  for  all  his  plainness,  per- 
haps because  of  it.  There  is  an  air  about  him." 
Faithful  dumb-bell  practice  had  made  John's  shoulders 
gain  in  breadth  and  erectness  in  the  past  year,  and 
in  spite  of  painful  self-consciousness — for  perhaps  the 
first  time  in  his  life — his  manner  had  its  usual  grave 
dignity  as  he  looked  down — very  far  down — on  his 
young  host. 

He  was  agreeing  with  Mrs.  Logan  as  to  his  own 
misfit,  and  something  of  the  pain  the  admission  cost 
him  was  visible  in  his  face,  despite  his  brave  efforts 
to  interest  himself  in  what  this  polite,  intelligent 
lad  was  saying  to  him.  At  that  moment  Mrs.  Logan 
brought  her  husband  up,  and  the  two  ringers  were 
offered  with  a  dancing  master's  bow  and  real  courtesy. 
Edward,  Jr.,  released  from  his  duty,  moved  in  Mary's 
direction  and  was  rewarded  for  his  attention  to  John — 
as  perhaps  he  may  have  foreseen — by  a  very  friendly 
glance.  His  face  straightway  gained  unusal  anima- 


282  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

tion  and  softness  as  he  entered  with  zest  into  the  lively 
chatter. 

When  the  dining-room  doors  were  thrown  open, 
the  little  group  moved  out  as  helter-skelter  as  a  flock 
of  chickens,  amid  exclamations  of  curiosity  and 
delight.  John,  with  Mrs.  Logan  at  his  side,  quietly 
took  up  the  rear,  but  she  noticed  his  wistful  glance 
wander  to  Mary's  brilliant  face  instead  of  to  the 
prettily  decorated  table  with  its  glow  from  the  big 
hanging  lamp  and  the  thirty-nine  candles  burning 
brightly  on  the  " double"  cake. 

"Mr.  Brown,  I  have  put  you  between  Mary  and 
me,"  Ellen  said,  smiling  at  him.  His  quick  flush  of 
appreciation  made  her  again  have  that  impulse  to 
make  up  to  him  for  something — she  did  not  define 
to  herself  what.  He  pushed  her  chair  up  to  the 
round  table  as  Joe  Potter,  the  younger  of  the  two 
male  guests,  did  the  like  for  Mary;  but  as  he  seated 
himself,  Mary  turned  her  happy  face  up  to  him  and  for 
a  moment  her  hand  stole  into  his,  and  the  whole 
room  was  suddenly  illumined  with  rose-color. 

There  was  small  chance  for  tete-a-tetes  at  that  board. 
But  whether  it  were  the  magic  of  Mary's  touch  and 
nearness  or  the  impossibility  of  remaining  a  stranger 
in  that  merry  company,  John's  formality  and  stiffness 
melted  fast  and  he  found  himself  laughing  at  the  sal- 
lies of  the  others  and  even  adding  a  word  now  and 
then  when  there  was  a  chance,  which  was  not  often. 
He  was  quite  content  to  rest  on  the  outskirts,  and  he 
had  to  acquaint  himself  with  another  Mary  than  any 
of  those  he  had  known.  She  would  have  seemed  a 
woman  all  at  once,  but  for  that  childish  handclasp 


JOHN   GETS   THE   RING  283 

and  an  occasional  naive  question  or  suggestion  that 
set  them  laughing.  People  always  laughed  with  Mary 
as  well  as  at  her. 

When  the  time  came  to  blow  out  the  candles  and 
cut  the  cake,  the  hilarity  increased.  Philip  won  the 
birthday  wish,  and  for  a  second  his  brilliant  eyes 
met  Mary's  and  she  colored  without  knowing  why. 
A  pair  of  grave,  dark  ones  followed  the  glance  to  her 
rose-red  cheek  and  then  lingered  long  on  Philip's 
glowing  face. 

"I  am  going  to  divide  my  side  of  the  cake  equally 
for  the  men,  and  you  must  divide  yours  for  the  girls, 
Philip,"  Ellen  said,  standing  up  and  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word.  "Then  we'll  take  up  a  subscrip- 
tion for  Mother  and  Father.  Their  fortunes  are  told! 
Now,  Mr.  Brown,  you  shall  be  the  first  man  to  choose!" 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  John  said,  smiling,  but  the  smile 
was  no  longer  spontaneous.  "I  will  come  in  on  the 
'subscription.'  I'm  sure  you  and  Mary  will  share 
with  me?" 

"Oh,  but  you  must  try  your  fortune!"  Ellen  cried, 
while  Marion  Scott,  who  had  been  Ellen's  dearest 
friend  from  babyhood,  exclaimed,  "Oh,  I  thought 
only  bride-cake  had  rings  and  things  in  it!" 

"Well,  this  is  a  double  coming-of-age,  and  nearly 
equal  to  a  wedding,"  Mrs.  Logan  answered,  laughing, 
"and  we  have  put  two  rings,  two  thimbles,  and  two 
dimes,  so  everybody  has  an  equal  chance." 

Finding  that  it  was  expected  of  him,  John  took  the 
huge  wedge  of  cake  nearest  him,  as  the  colored  butler 
lifted  the  stand  and  carried  it  around.  As  each  one 
fell  to  breaking  up  the  cake,  shouts  of  mirth  sounded 


284  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

from  all  sides.  John  was  so  interested  in  Mary's 
performance  that  he  broke  his  own  cake  mechanically 
without  even  glancing  down.  All  eyes  were  suddenly 
turned  on  little  Priscilla,  who  jumped  up  and  down 
with  excitement  as  she  held  up  a  gold  wedding  ring 
in  her  thumb  and  ringer.  Mr.  Logan,  who  sat  next 
her,  put  his  arm  about  her  with  a  congratulatory 
squeeze,  and  the  whole  table  beamed  at  her.  They 
groaned  over  Ellen,  whose  dainty  hand  appeared 
above  the  table  decorated  with  a  silver  thimble. 
"You  too,  Philip!"  she  cried,  as  her  cousin,  with  a  very 
wry  face  displayed  its  mate,  while  two  guests  received 
the  dimes  that  promised  riches. 

"Where  is  the — ?  Why,  Mr.  Brown,  you've  got 
the  man's  ring!"  Her  announcement  was  greeted 
with  such  hearty  applause  and  good  will  that  John 
had  no  chance  to  feel  himself  an  interloper.  He  lifted 
the  little  circlet  with  heightened  color,  but  his  own 
crooked  smile,  as  he  looked  across  at  Priscilla. 

"Extremes  meet,  Miss  Priscilla,"  he  said.  The 
child  was  bright  enough  to  catch  his  meaning,  and  no 
child  ever  looked  at  John  without  an  answering  smile. 

"Look  at  Mary!"  Ellen  exclaimed,  with  a  rippling 
laugh.  "Don't  take  it  so  to  heart,  Mary."  She  was 
almost  afraid  of  having  gone  too  far,  for  Mary's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  her  guardian's  face  with  a  startled, 
wondering  look,  as  at  a  portent.  She  looked  at  Ellen 
and  blushed  when  she  was  so  directly  alluded  to,  but 
there  was  general  merriment  at  her  expense. 

"You  ought  to  have  got  the  ring  instead  of  this 
little  chit,  Miss  Mary,"  Mr.  Logan  said,  pinching 
his  daughter's  ear  and  quite  misinterpreting  Mary's 


JOHN  GETS  THE  RING  285 

ill-concealed  seriousness.  "But  you  won't  have  to 
wait  long!  You'll  find  that  sort  of  ring  growing  on 
every  bush." 

"Hear  Father  paying  compliments,"  Edward,  Jr., 
ejaculated,  but  his  eyes  were  on  Mary's  blushing 
face  as  she  looked  straight  in  Mr.  Logan's  twinkling, 
kindly  ones.  "I  don't  want  a  ring,"  she  said.  "I'm 
never  going  to  get  married.  I'm  going  to  study  law 
and  go  into  partnership  with  John!"  There  was  not 
a  vestige  of  a  smile  on  her  lips  nor  in  her  eyes.  She 
announced  the  fact  as  though  it  were  hardly  oppor- 
tune for  so  large  an  audience,  but  were  drawn  from  her 
perforce.  The  banter  which  was  on  each  tongue  at 
the  incongruous  idea  could  not  find  fit  expression, 
and  at  last  it  was  Mr.  Logan  who  entered  the  breach. 

"Mr.  Brown  will  find  his  place  of  business  mobbed 
and  his  windows  broken  if  he  tries  that,"  he  said 
gravely,  his  agate-brown  eyes  very  bright. 

The  need  for  a  reply  was  obviated  by  the  passing 
of  a  brimming  pitcher  of  claret  punch  and  the  filling 
of  all  glasses  for  the  toasts.  Edward,  Jr.,  rose  and 
with  more  facility  than  one  would  have  expected  from 
him,  made  a  serio-comic  speech,  ending  in  a  request 
to  Tom  Potter  to  propose  the  first  health  to  Ellen, 
as  the  queen  of  the  occasion. 

Mr.  Potter,  a  bright-faced,  intelligent  youth  of 
twenty  or  thereabout,  rose  and  made  Ellen  a  very 
neat  and  graceful  little  speech,  at  which  the  pink 
in  her  cheeks  almost  rivaled  her  gown.  Neither 
John  nor  Mary  could  understand  some  joking  allu- 
sions, as  they  belonged  to  a  past  in  which  they  had 
no  share,  but  the  tone  of  heartfelt  admiration  and 


286  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

affection  was  evident.  As  Ellen  put  her  glass  to  her 
lips  in  response  and  held  out  her  bethimbled  hand 
across  John  and  Mary,  Mr.  Potter  looked  down  on  it 
with  a  swift  change  of  expression  and  gave  it  a  hearty 
squeeze.  "I  was  going  to  say  that  I  couldn't  wish 
anything  better  for  you  than  to  reap  what  you  sow!" 
he  said  laughing,  "but  I  want  to  add  that  I  hope  you 
may  never  rip  what  you  sew!"  With  which  bon-mot 
he  sat  down  amid  a  chorus  of  laughing  applause  from 
a  very  indulgent  audience. 

"Now,  Miss  Farnham,  may  our  other  honored  mem- 
ber hear  from  you  first?"  Edward  said,  with  mock 
ceremony. 

Mary  got  up  at  once  and  with  a  quick  change  from 
the  matter-of-fact  simplicity  of  a  moment  before, 
directed  an  arch  smile  toward  Philip,  who  had  risen 
too,  and  faced  her  with  expectant  eyes  that  were  as 
beautiful  as  her  own. 

"  I  hope  you  may  be  as  wise  as  Solomon,  as  rich  as 
Croesus,  as  strong  as  Samson,  as  patient  as  Job,  as 
great  as  Alexander,  as  old  as  Methusaleh — and  as 
happy  as  a  king,"  she  said,  coloring  warmly  as  she 
lifted  the  glass  to  her  lips  without  taking  her  eyes 
from  Philip's. 

"You  didn't  ask  that  my  birthday  wish  might  be 
granted,"  he  answered  with  a  quick  spark  of  daring 
in  his  face. 

"That  mightn't  be  good  for  you,"  she  answered 
demurely,  lowering  her  lashes  as  she  sat  down,  glass 
in  hand. 

"Did  you  ever  read  the  'Sleeping  Beauty'?" 
Philip  asked.  "Don't  you  know  that  one  evil  wish 


JOHN   GETS   THE   RING  287 

can  undo  all  the  good  ones — and  sometimes  a  wish 
left  out  is  just  the  same?" 

"Now  shut  up,  Philip!"  Edward  interrupted  his 
audacious  cousin,  seeing  Mary  in  the  embarrassing 
position  of  being  unwilling  to  try  to  understand. 
"Miss  Sophia  Logan  is  waiting  to  be  heard  from. 
Like  all  the  Logan  family,  she  is  a  poetical  genius, 
and  I  seem  to  foresee  that  her  remarks  will '  drop  into 
poetry'  and  I  am  sure  without  'extra  charge." 

"Oh,  Edward,  you  put  me  all  out!"  Sophie  stam- 
mered, blushing  painfully  as  she  rose  amid  acclaiming 
cheers.  She  read  her  toast  from  a  bit  of  paper  with- 
out once  smiling  or  raising  her  eyes: 

"Here's  to  our  Ellen, 
Her  praise  I'm  a'  telliu'; 
I  hope  she'll  live  long 
And  keep  well  and  strong. 
We  wish  she'd  get  fatter, 
But  that  doesn't  matter." 

Ellen  jumped  up  and  ran  around  to  show  her 
appreciation  of  this  triumph  of  poetic  tribute  by  a 
hearty  hug  and  kiss.  "I'll  begin  to  eat  corn-meal 
mush  at  once!"  she  promised,  while  Sophie  quickly 
regained  her  smiling  composure. 

"I  couldn't  make  up  a  poem,"  Priscilla  announced, 
getting  up  before  her  turn  in  her  eagerness  to  have  her 
say;  "but  I  just  changed  the  words  of  one  to  make 
them  do." 

"In  parentheses  I  would  like  to  inform  you,  Pris- 
cilla, that  that  is  what  is  usually  called  a  'parody/ 
and  a  very  nice  thing  it  is  too;  but  don't  let  me  delay 
you." 


288  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"Edward,  you're  just  teasing  me!"  Priscilla  said, 
smiling  with  a  sangfroid  totally  different  from  Sophie's 
bashfulness.  "You  all  know  where  I  got  this  from — 

"We  are  sure  that  Philip  cai 
Be  a  little  gentleman, 
And  we  hope  he'll  soon  be  able 
To  keep  ten  horses  in  his  stable." 

Philip,  who  had  that  morning  received  a  present 
of  a  beautiful  saddle  horse  from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Logan, 
answered  Priscilla's  "parody"  in  Ellen's  fashion. 
She  sat  down  glowing  with  satisfaction,  and  looking 
down  on  her  ring  finger  with  its  unwonted  decoration. 
"You  haven't  said  yours,  Edward,"  she  said. 

"Mine!"  Edward  answered,  making  a  sour  face  at 
her.  "I  wish  it  known  that  if  anything  does  come 
into  my  mind  to  say,  it  will  be  perfectly  impromptu." 
His  assurance  was  received  with  cries  of  "Go  on! 
go  on!"  He  stood  looking  from  one  to  the  other  with 
a  very  whimsical  face.  Then  he  lifted  his  glass  and 
clinked  it  with  Philip's  in  true  student  fashion. 

"Well — I  drink  to  our  prince  among  cousins: 
I  hope  he'll  have  birthdays  by  dozens. 

(Notice  I  don't  say  hundreds!) 
He's  never  been  much  of  a  student, 
For  he  thought  application  imprudent ; 
When  his  elders  advised  him  to  hustle, 
He  put  all  his  mind  on  his  muscle; 
And  though  he  is  soon  to  leave  college, 
We  doubt  the  extent  of  his  knowledge. 
But  in  wisdom  at  least  he's  advancing; 
He's  now  giving  lessons  in  dancing, 
And  we're  hopefully  led  to  expect 
He'll  be  teaching — psychology  ( ?)  next. 
(Please  excuse  the  rhyme!) " 


JOHN   GETS   THE   RING  289 

While  he  recited  his  "impromptu"  poem  with 
unmoved  gravity,  in  spite  of  the  laughter  of  the  others, 
his  eyes  traveled  slowly  around  the  little  circle,  but 
as  he  finished  he  looked  with  melancholy  significance 
straight  at  Mary. 

In  the  midst  of  the  hubbub  that  followed,  John 
felt  himself  "a  chiel  amang  them  takin'  notes." 
Mr.  Logan  looked  at  him  from  time  to  time  as  the 
fun  proceeded.  Finally  he  got  to  his  feet  with  his 
characteristic  old-time,  formal  manner,  but  a  very 
bright  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"If  you  will  just  let  me  be  heard  for  a  moment," 
he  said,  bowing  profoundly  to  John,  "I  would  like 
to  drink  to  the  health  of  the  future  bridegroom  of 
the  party,  Mr.  John  Brown,  whose  'body' — in  spite 
of  all  reports  to  the  contrary — I  rejoice  to  see  is  'all 
here'  (laughing  and  cheers),  and  I  hope  it  may  have 
many  happy  returns." 

"Hear  Father!  Why  I  never  knew  what  a  brilliant 
family  I  belonged  to,"  Ellen  cried;  and  the  general 
mirth  smoothed  over  a  miserably  lame  attempt  on 
John's  part  to  respond  to  this  surprising  honor  done 
him. 

"How  wonderfully  good  to  him  they  all  were,  and 
how  intent  on  proving  their  pleasure  in  his  having 
won  the  ring,"  he  thought  as  he  went  home.  It  was 
all  for  Mary's  sake,  of  course.  Already  she  seemed 
to  be  adopted  into  the  family  and  on  affectionate 
terms  with  each  one.  Already  they  called  each  other 
by  their  first  names — and  John's  observant  eyes  in 
noting  Philip's  admiration  had  not  missed  Edward's 
less  conspicuous  glances.  "Yes,  this  was  where  she 

19 


290  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

belonged — among  these  boys  and  girls  of  her  own  age." 
He  drew  out  his  watch,  but  was  apparently  too 
absent-minded  to  look  at  it.  Instead,  he  held  it  in 
his  hand  for  the  rest  of  the  journey.  His  face  was  the 
face  of  a  man  in  pain. 

"If  I  could  only  know  and  accept  the  worst,  I  am 
sure  I  am  strong  enough  to  bear  it ;  but —  '  Why  had 
she  looked  at  him  like  that  when  he  had  bid  her  good 
bye?  He  saw  her  eyes  now  when  he  shut  his  own, 
but  each  time  the  thrill  of  them  reached  his  heart 
they  were  blotted  out  by  Philip  Dillwyn's  handsome 

face  and  the  memory  of  the  dancing  lessons. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

"Mary,"  Philip  said,  looking  at  her  with  changing 
color  on  his  cheeks  and  pleading  humility  in  his 
eyes,  "you  are  going  away  this  afternoon  and  I  don't 
know  how  long  it  will  be  before  I  see  you  again. 
We  have  got  to  be  such  good  friends  in  all  these 
days  together — wouldn't  you — kiss  me — good-bye 
— just  once?"  He  had  taken  Mary  for  a  walk  on 
this  last  day  of  their  vacation.  He  took  her  hand 
and  pressed  it  hard,  looking  with  ill-concealed  sus- 
pense at  her  downcast  face. 

He  had  decided  that  Mary  was  "too  innocent  to 
know  better,"  and  he  absolved  himself  of  any  disre- 
spectful feeling  toward  her,  but  he  had  never  in  his 
life  wanted  so  much  to  kiss  anyone. 

"I  wouldn't  mind,"  she  said  at  last,  very  low, 
without  looking  up;  "but  I  don't  think  I  ought  to." 

"Why  not?"  he  said  eagerly,  leaning  toward  her 
without  more  ado,  but  she  drew  resolutely  back. 

"John  won't  let  me  kiss  him!"  she  said,  looking 


291 


straight  at  Philip  with  grave  eyes.  He  started  and 
changed  color  violently. 

"Mr.  Brown  is  a  gentleman,  Mary,"  was  all  he 
said.  He  had  learned  his  lesson. 

More  than  once  in  his  short  life  Philip  had  been 
taken  to  task  for  faults  that  showed  actual  moral 
obliquity,  and  he  had  always  received  reproof  with  a 
humility  which  went  far  to  disarm  criticism;  frankly 
owning  himself  a  sinner,  and  forgetting  his  offenses 
as  quickly  as  those  he  offended  forgot  them.  The 
"good"  fellows  at  school  had  always  seemed  tame, 
and  he  secretly  prided  himself  on  his  reputation  for 
being  something  of  a  scapegrace. 

But  Mary's  half  unconscious  rebuke  struck  him  in 
a  vulnerable  spot  and  rankled.  To  be  convicted  of 
an  offense  against  the  ordinary  rules  of  good  breed- 
ing pricked  his  self-love  as  nothing  had  ever  pricked 
his  conscience,  and  left  an  indelible  spot  on  his  im- 
maculate self-confidence. 

How  many  of  us  are  there,  I  wonder,  who  would 
rather  be  written  down  a  sinner  than  a  boor  ? 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

SALVE  FOR  A  SORE  HEART 

IT  was  house-cleaning  time  at  the  Browns',  and 
that  meant  a  season  of  interrupted  monotony 
for  every  one  but  John.  Except  that  he  was 
asked  to  stay  away  to  lunch  on  the  day  when  the 
dining-room  and  hall  carpets  were  up,  he  would 
hardly  have  detected  an  iota  of  change  in  the  daily 
routine.  Mrs.  Brown  was  one  of  those  excellent 
housekeepers  who  never  allow  the  great  semi-annual 
revival  to  disturb  the  comfort,  or  even  so  much  as 
catch  the  eye,  of  the  male  members  of  the  family. 
To  have  eaten  his  lunch  above  a  bare  floor  would 
have  seemed  to  John  a  decidedly  enlivening  experi- 
ence. Even  to  have  been  asked  to  lend  a  hand  at 
hanging  a  picture  or  mending  a  break,  or  lifting  or 
carrying,  would  have  given  him  a  warm  human  thrill 
quite  incomprehensible  to  his  mother.  His  whole 
nature  was  in  revolt  against  the  eternal  sameness  of 
his  life.  Why  had  it  never  struck  him  before?  Why 
had  his  business  and  his  cricket  or  tennis  always  made 
variety  enough? 

Once  he  caught  himself  wondering  as  he  entered 
the  still  house,  with  its  look  of  "apple-pie"  order, 
what  Mary's  housekeeping  would  be  like?  "Not 
first  class,"  he  feared  with  a  crooked  drawing  of  his 

(292) 


SALVE  FOR  A   SORE  HEART          293 

lips,  but  at  least  there  would  be  nothing  monotonous 
about  it !  He  colored  violently  at  the  vision  his  mind 
conjured  up.  "I  wish  we  might  have  Miss  Mary 
all  the  year  round,"  John  Patterson  had  said.  How 
could  anyone  who  loved  her  and  had  seen  her  once 
in  the  company  of  boys  and  girls  echo  such  a  wish? 
To  bring  that  warm,  bright,  living  personality  into 
this —  he  did  not  complete  the  thought.  And  yet, 
there  had  been  nothing  dull  about  the  house  during 
her  visits.  How  often  since  the  Christmas  holidays 
the  words  had  rung  in  his  ear:  "I  am  come  that 
they  might  have  life,  and  that  they  might  have  it 
more  abundantly;"  and  he  had  felt  that  he  under- 
stood their  meaning  for  the  first  time. 

At  twenty-one  John  had  found  the  society  of  his 
contemporaries  uninspiring  at  the  very  least,  and 
even  before  Margaret's  death  he  lapsed  easily  into 
the  habits  of  middle  age  and  was  far  happier  by  the 
reading  lamp  at  home  than  in  the  most  attractive 
gathering  of  his  kind.  And  now — when  he  faced 
the  fact  that  middle  age  was  indeed  close  upon  him, 
his  whole  soul  seemed  rising  in  rebellion,  as  at  the 
closing  round  him  of  a  living  tomb.  Evening  after 
evening  he  seated  himself  in  his  old  chair  opposite 
his  mother  and  took  up  his  book,  only  to  find  himself 
reading  the  same  paragraph  over  and  over.  He 
tried  reading  aloud  with  better  success;  two  senses 
were  better  than  one;  but  if  his  mother  had  put  him 
through  an  examination  on  the  subject  matter  of 
what  he  read  with  just  emphasis  and  intelligent 
phrasing,  she  would  often  have  been  startled  beyond 
measure  at  the  blank  disclosed.  She  noticed  a  change 


294  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

in  him;  he  seemed  even  thinner  and  darker  than  his 
wont,  and  there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  sometimes 
that  made  her  vaguely  uneasy.  She  could  not 
diagnose  it.  Six  months  ago  she  would  have  thought 
that  she  could;  but  then  he  had  astonished  her  by 
his  cheeriness. 

She  could  not  know  that  the  lure  of  the  spring  was 
on  him,  that  he  was  longing  for  the  country,  for  the 
birds  and  flowers,  for  youth  and  life — for  something 
stronger  than  youth  or  life.  That  he  was  feeling 
himself  an  endless  "misfit."  Had  he  not  been  an 
oddity  in  those  parties  of  fifteen  years  ago,  when 
much  of  the  talk  about  him  had  been  meaningless  to 
him,  and  the  fun  often  inane?  And  now — the  memory 
of  that  evening  at  the  Logans'  was  so  fresh  in  his 
mind!  Certainly  the  wit  had  been  of  the  college 
class-day  variety  when  not  actually  childish,  and  the 
round  games  of  the  evening  had  been  partly  children's 
games;  but  children  are  genuine,  and  the  merry-mak- 
ing at  the  birthday  party  had  been  genuine  and  a 
quite  new  experience  to  John;  and  the  knowledge 
of  what  lay  before  Mary,  now  that  she  was  really 
leaving  the  nest  and  finding  her  wings,  made  his 
own  future  seem  empty  and  chill. 

He  had  been  oftener  to  see  Catharine  that  winter 
than  to  see  Mary  herself,  and  the  hours  he  spent 
with  the  lonely  woman  were  an  unfailing  pleasure  to 
both.  They  talked  of  nothing  but  Mary;  sometimes 
they  forgot  to  talk  at  all  and  would  sit  in  sympa- 
thetic silence,  each  wrapped  in  a  veil  of  memories. 
He  always  paid  a  visit  to  the  little  parlor,  whither 
Catharine  never  followed  him,  letting  him  browse 


SALVE   FOR  A   SORE  HEART          295 

at  will  among  its  treasures  and  come  back  to  her 
with  a  quiet  face  that  she  had  learned  to  know. 

He  came  back  from  Fernwood  one  warm  afternoon 
in  early  May  with  a  greater  unrest  than  ever  in  his 
heart  and  a  look  of  steady  patience  on  his  face  that 
was  almost  endurance.  The  memory  of  a  year  ago 
was  vivid  within  him  and  he  was  full  of  feverish 
uncertainty  as  to  what  this  summer  was  to  bring. 
He  knew  that  Mary  had  already  received  invitations 
enough  to  more  than  fill  her  whole  vacation,  but  in 
all  her  letters  there  was  a  reserve  on  the  subject  that 
was  significant,  and  that  same  reserve  he  found 
reflected  in  Catharine's  honest  face  and  speech. 

"John,"  his  mother  said,  looking  solicitously 
at  his  haggard  face  as  he  sat  idly  cutting  the  leaves 
of  the  newest  Atlantic  Monthly,  already  a  week  old, 
"I  really  think  you  need  a  tonic!" 

He  looked  up  quickly  and  colored,  but  answered 
with  a  very  fair  imitation  of  a  laugh.  "  Why,  Mother, 
I  never  needed  a  tonic  in  my  life!  Perhaps  the  warm 
weather  is  making  me  seem  lazy." 

His  mother  was  not  listening.  Her  handsome 
face  was  turned  toward  the  picture  of  Margaret  on 
the  wall. 

"I  think  it  will  be  a  good  plan  to  close  the  house 
this  summer,"  she  said  after  a  short  pause.  "There 
will  be  nothing  to  keep  you  in  town" — coloring  a 
little  in  spite  of  her  wish  to  seem  unconcerned — 
"and  I  was  talking  to  Hannah  the  other  day,  and 
find  that  she  and  John  would  be  more  than  thankful 
to  be  able  to  spend  two  or  three  months  up  in  Lebanon 
County  with  her  mother  on  the  farm.  Her  mother 


296  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

is  poorly  and  is  getting  on  in  years,  and  Eliza  isn't 
well  this  spring." 

She  stopped  and  glanced  at  John,  whose  eyes  were 
on  the  thin  ivory  blade  which  he  was  drawing  across 
the  palm  of  his  hand,  but  there  was  no  inattention 
in  his  face. 

"It  was  a  kind  thought,"  he  said  quietly,  "and 
no  doubt  it  would  be  the  best  plan." 

"I  want  you  to  have  a  good  vacation  this  year." 
Could  she  be  unconscious  of  the  irony  in  her  words? 
"And  if  you  did  need  to  come  down  for  anything, 
you  could  go  to  the  club  with  George  and  be  very 
comfortable." 

No  answer!  The  paper  cutter  moved  gently  back 
and  forth.  A  feeling  of  irritation  and  self-pity  was 
taking  possession  of  her. 

"Then  I  shall  be  glad  of  an  excuse  to  get  rid  of 
Matilda,"  she  said  sharply.  "She  is  growing  so  care- 
less and  negligent,  and  nothing  has  been  cooked  as 
it  should  be  lately.  Hannah  says  that  she  had  some 
misunderstanding  with  the  man  who  has  been  coming 
to  see  her  all  winter,  and  he  has  stopped  his  visits, 
and  Matilda  is  all  upset  about  it.  A  cook  with  a 
'beau'  is  a  very  unsatisfactory  institution,  and  I  did 
think  she  was  safe!  She's  past  thirty,  I  know,  but 
the  desire  for  'beaux'  dies  hard.  I'll  look  out  for 
one  that's  forty  in  the  autumn." 

The  thin  blade  of  the  paper-cutter  bent  dangerously. 
Then  John  looked  up  with  an  odd  smile. 

"You  see,  the  Lord  made  her  a  woman  before  He 
made  her  a  cook." 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  mean  by  that?     You 


SALVE  FOR  A  SORE  HEART          297 

do  say  such  queer  things  sometimes.  Don't  you 
suppose  I  know  that!  Oh,"  with  a  sudden  complete 
change  of  voice,  drawing  her  hand  from  her  pocket 
with  the  handkerchief  she  had  been  seeking  and  an 
opened  letter  which  her  fingers  had  encountered  on 
the  quest,  "I  forgot  to  read  Sarah's  letter;  I  was 
in  such  a  state  of  vexation  when  it  came  this  after- 
noon." The  letter  from  Mrs.  Wharton  had  appar- 
ently been  commenced  and  then  hastily  thrust  in 
her  pocket  without  the  envelope.  John  looked  up 
quickly  and  watched  her  face  as  she  opened  it  and 
read  a  few  lines  with  indifference.  He  saw  indiffer- 
ence change  to  displeasure  and  the  line  of  her  lips 
thin  perceptibly. 

"I  think  Sarah  must  be  crazy!  She  wants  you  to 
come  all  the  way  back  from  Northeast  before  you've 
more  than  got  there,  and  spend  the  rest  of  June 
with  her."  Her  color  rose  and  she  did  not  look  at 
John. 

The  paper-cutter  snapped  in  two  with  a  sharp 
report.  Then  she  did  indeed  look  up.  "I'm  so 
sorry!"  John  said  simply,  looking  at  the  broken 
toy.  "I  ought  never  to  touch  such  delicate  things 
with  my  big,  awkward  hands." 

But  his  mother's  face  had  become  thoughtful. 
Some  feeling  was  struggling  with  the  irritation  of  a 
moment  before.  She  read  on  as  though  nothing 
had  occurred  to  interrupt  her.  The  letter  was  not 
long.  She  had  finished  it  some  time  before  she  lifted 
her  eyes. 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  Mary  is  to  go  there  from 
school  for  the  rest  of  the  month,  and  of  course  Sarah 


298  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

thinks  you  would  like  to  be  with  her."  A  somber 
cloud  was  settling  over  her  face.  "But  I  was  think- 
ing of  asking  Mary  to  pay  us  a  visit  at  Northeast 
some  time  during  the  summer,  and  I  think  it  would 
be  perfectly  absurd  for  you  to  come  all  the  way  down 
to  visit  with  her  here.  Of  course,  I  wouldn't  want 
you  to  consider  me;  I  shall  have  plenty  of  company; 
but  I  can't  approve  your  having  that  long,  tiresome, 
hot  journey  twice  in  a  week.  There's  no  sense  in 
it!" 

"Mother!"  The  reproach  was  the  sharper  that 
it  was  so  gentle.  He  saw  her  lips  begin  to  tremble 
and  her  eyes  to  fill. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  I'm  selfish  and  inhuman!  You 
might  think  so  from  the  way  Sarah  talks,  and  you 
look  as  though — I  did  hope  you'd  gotten  over  being 
so "  She  broke  off,  dried  her  eyes  energetic- 
ally with  her  handkerchief  and  abruptly  left  the 
room. 

John  did  not  attempt  to  stop  her  nor  follow  her. 
He  held  the  ivory  fragments  so  tightly  in  his  right 
hand  that  the  carving  on  the  handle  was  making  deep 
marks  in  the  firm  flesh,  while  he  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  left. 

A  step  came  toward  the  library  door.  It  was  not 
his  mother's,  but  John  Patterson's.  He  raised  his 
flushed  face,  and  met  the  frankly  knowing  smile 
with  which  John  handed  him  a  letter — the  letter. 

I  had  a  hundred  things  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about, 
and  when  you  could  not  meet  us  last  week  it  made  me  forget 
most  of  them,  and  I'm  sure  I  never  mentioned  in  my  horrid 
little  scrappy  notes  since  that  I  had  asked  Mrs.  Wurts  and  Jack 


SALVE  FOR  A  SORE   HEART          299 

to  let  me  give  up  going  to  his  Commencement.  I  found  it 
wasn't  just  listening  to  exercises  and  looking  at  sports,  but 
dancing  and  gaiety  of  all  kinds,  and  as  the  time  comes  around 
again  that  Father  and  I  landed  here  last  year — but  you  know! 
This  morning  I  had  a  letter  from  Jack  and  an  enclosure  from 
his  mother.  He  is  very  much  disappointed,  but  they  both 
understand  and  think  it  is  natural  that  I  should  rather  go 
straight  to  Mrs.  Wharton;  only  they  say  I  must  promise  to 
come  to  them  at  York  Harbor  for  all  of  July.  Ellen  says  I 
must  go  camping  in  the  Adirondacks  with  them  the  middle  of 
August,  and  I  should  like  that,  being  in  the  woods  and  on  the 
water  all  the  time.  If  only  you  could  go  too ! 

Not  another  word  of  wishing  she  were  to  be  with 
him  as  they  had  been  last  summer. 

I  had  such  a  lovely  visit  with  them  I  couldn't  have  time  to 
feel  sad,  and  everybody  was  so  good  to  me!  But  since  I  got 
back  here,  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter.  I  can't  seem  to 
"brace  up"  at  all,  and  the  preparations  and  fussing  for  Com- 
mencement make  me  want  to  run  away. 

You  will  come  on  Saturday,  won't  you?  Miss  Newlin  said 
that  if  she  had  only  known  you  could  have  come  on  Wednesday, 
she  would  have  made  a  special  exception  in  your  favor,  even 
if  it  offended  some  other  people. 

I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  the  people  who  have  bought  the 
old  house.  It  is  a  great  deal  of  money,  isn't  it?  I  feel  as  though 
I  shall  be  almost  rich,  and  I'm  glad  you  think  it  is  best  to  keep 
the  furniture.  It  is  very  old-fashioned,  like  Mrs.  Wharton's; 
b'ut  I  love  that  kind,  and  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  know  I  can  have 
it  if  I  ever  have  any  place  to  put  it.  Anyhow,  I  wouldn't  like 
to  have  anyone  strange  sleep  in  Grandma's  old  bed  where  Father 
died,  nor  sit  on  that  dear  old  sofa. 

"John,"  Mrs.  Brown's  voice  said  at  his  elbow. 
He  started  and  rose  abruptly,  trying  to  hide  the  tears 
in  his  eyes — for  there  were  tears  enough  to  brim  over, 


300  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

although  his  heart  had  not  felt  so  warmed  for 
weeks. 

"Sarah  Wharton  says  that  Mary  knows  nothing 
of  the  possibility  of  your  being  there,  and  she  wants 
you  to  say  nothing  to  her.  It  is  to  be  a  surprise. 
She  has  evidently  settled  it  in  her  mind  that  you 
are  coming,  and  I  see  how  you  feel  about  it,  so  I  will 
say  no  more." 

John  knew  that  any  demonstration  on  his  part 
would  be  ill-timed.  He  only  said,  "Thank  you, 
Mother,"  in  a  rather  unsteady  voice. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


"  T  |"OW  I  do  love  the  country!"  Mary  ex- 
I  I  claimed  as  she  sat  on  the  back  porch  of 
the  old  Wharton  homestead  with  her  hostess 
and  John.  Mrs.  Wharton  was  busy  with  her  summer 
work — crocheting  cotton  mats — while  both  her  guests 
were  idle.  The  scent  of  the  hay  that  was  being  mowed 
in  the  orchard  came  to  them  stronger  and  stronger 
as  the  sun  grew  hotter  and  hotter,  and  the  whirr  of 
the  machine  put  an  end  to  conversation  when  it  came 
on  their  side  of  the  square. 

"I  love  everything  that  grows  and  everything  they 
do  on  farms.  Sarah  said  I  might  help  her  again 
with  the  butter  to-morrow. — You  don't  mind,  do 
you? — I  just  love  to  turn  it  over  and  over  and  make 
the  drops  of  buttermilk  come  out  of  it.  My  arms 
are  ever  so  strong,"  feeling  her  muscle  critically 
and  extending  her  right  arm  to  John  for  corroboration. 
"Do  you  know,"  with  a  rather  shamefaced  glance 
from  one  of  her  listeners  to  the  other,  "I  shocked 
Ellen  by  vaulting  over  a  fence  one  day  while  I  was 
there.  Philip  and  Edward  were  along  too,  but  they 
only  laughed." 

"I  wonder  what  your  grandmother  would  have 
(301) 


302  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

thought  of  that!"  Mrs.  Wharton  said  in  a  teasing 
voice.  "I  used  to  be  considered  as  wild  as  a  colt, 
but  I  never  remember  doing  anything  so  bad  as  that; 
after  I  was  in  long  skirts,  anyway." 

Mary  colored  warmly. 

"You  could  never  do  anything  really  unwomanly 
or  immodest,  Mary,"  John  hastened  to  say,  winning 
his  reward  in  the  half  shy,  entirely  grateful  glance  she 
gave  him.  "You  are  impulsive,  but  not  daring." 

"Mr.  Logan  said  he  could  see  my  "Quaker  back- 
ing sticking  out  all  around  me,"  she  said  as  though  it 
were  a  sort  of  justification.  "But" — with  a  sudden 
after- thought — "he  said  I  was  what  they  used  to 
call  a  'free  Quaker.'  They  were  the  kind  who  would 
fight  in  self-defense  or  for  their  liberties.  I  am  sure 
I  would  have  been  that  kind.  What  makes  me  most 
inclined  to  join  the  Friends  now  is  their  liberty. 
There  isn't  really  any  other  good  reason;  for  John 
believes  just  as  much  in  the  'Inward  Light'  as  you 
and  I  do,  Mrs.  Wharton,  even  if  he  is  an  Episcopalian, 
and  he  said  on  Sunday  that  the  quiet  meeting  was 
just  as  real  a  Communion  service  as  he  ever  attended." 
Her  face  softened  with  sudden  solemnity  and  her 
voice  dropped.  "Meeting  seems  very  peaceful," 
she  went  on  thoughtfully;  "but,"  with  a  deprecating 
glance  up  in  John's  attentive  face,  "I  don't  really 
care  much  for  peace.  I  would  rather  do  something 
or  be  stirred  all  up  by  a  fine  sermon." 

"Fine  sermons  are  rare  in  any  church,  I  am  afraid," 
John  said  with  a  sympathetic  smile.  "  I  believe  choos- 
ing a  denomination  is  a  good  deal  like  choosing  a 
family  would  be.  If  we  had  to  start  out  to  select  a 


A  PICTURE  OF  HER  IDEAL  HUSBAND  303 

father  and  mother  from  among  the  best  people  in 
the  land,  we  should  find  it  hard  work,  in  cold  blood. 
We  should  see  the  faults  in  all  of  them,  for  we  all 
have  some,  and  we  should  make  up  our  minds  to 
stay  orphans  and  be  free.  And  on  the  other  hand, 
if  we  make  it  our  duty  to  do  all  we  can  to  better 
the  church  in  which  we  happen  to  be  born,  and  over- 
look its  faults  where  we  can't  help  them,  we  are 
pretty  sure  to  grow  to  love  it.  Matters  of  belief 
are  different,  of  course,  but  in  the  essential  things 
we  all  believe  a  good  deal  alike." 

"We  do,"  Mary  said  with  a  quick  flush. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  believe,"  Mrs.  Wharton 
put  in;  "at  least,  I  could  never  tell  anybody.  I 
think  that  is  the  way  with  a  good  many  of  our  branch 
of  Friends,  and  I  suppose  it  is  a  weakness.  They 
have  been  so  much  misunderstood  and  have  heard 
themselves  set  down  so  often  as  a  sort  of  heathens 
with  no  belief,  that  I  think  they  are  shy  of  committing 
themselves.  You  have  a  straight,  intelligent  idea 
of  what  you  believe,  Mary." 

"Do  you  think  that  matters  much?"  Mary 
asked  seriously. 

"Well,  I  think  we  need  just  such  stuff  as  there  is 
in  you,  especially  we  'Hicksites.'  So  many  of  our 
nice,  pleasant,  honest  young  people — even  the  young 
married  ones — don't  feel  any  sense  of  responsibility 
toward  the  Meeting  and  don't  teach  their  children 
to  go  to  Meeting.  They  drift  into  churches,  espe- 
cially the  Episcopal  Church,  because  they  like  the 
service;  but  they  have  no  idea  of  joining  it.  They 
call  themselves  Friends  and  are  proud  of  the  Quaker 


304  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

traditions,  but  they  have  no  loyalty  to  the  Friends 
to-day.  They  think  too  much  about  the  peculiar- 
ities, and  they  don't  like  peculiarities.  The  Orthodox 
Friends  are  much  more  'concerned'  and  I  believe 
you  would  be  happier  with  them,  Mary." 

"But  Father  said  he  never  agreed  with  the  ser- 
mons," Mary  answered  with  grave  surprise  at  such 
a  suggestion  coming  from  Mrs.  Wharton. 

"Well,  I  have  an  idea  they  have  broadened  a  good 
deal  since  your  father  was  a  boy,  especially  the  young 
ones,  and  they're  likely  to  keep  on;  and  there  is  a 
great  deal  more  life  in  their  meetings,  and  more — 
I  suppose  you  would  call  it  '  spirituality ' — than  there 
is  in  ours,  and  much  more  general  culture." 

"I  am  sure  that  is  so,"  John  said,  "and  I  have 
noticed  myself  the  difference  in  the  devotional  feel- 
ing; but" — he  was  thinking  of  the  primness  and 
smugness  of  some  he  had  known,  and  their  intellectual 
timidity,  and  picturing  Mary  in  the  company  of  those 
sweet,  modest  girls,  some  of  whom  were  not  allowed 
to  study  Shakespeare's  plays  nor  even  to  read  a  stand- 
ard novel. 

"You  are  too  much  like  your  father  to  feel  at  home 
in  the  Orthodox  Friends'  Meeting,  I  am  afraid," 
he  said,  recalling  Dick's  boyish  explosions.  "  I  believe 
you  could  do  without  culture  and  refinement  better 
than  some  other  things,  but  there  seems  to  me  a  great 
change  coming  over  the  tone  of  thought  in  all  denomi- 
nations, and  I  think  twenty  years,  or  even  ten,  will 
see  the  two  branches  of  Friends  much  nearer  together." 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  need  to  make  up  my  mind  yet," 
Mary  said,  drawing  a  long  breath.  "I  don't  care  so 


A  PICTURE  OF  HER  IDEAL  HUSBAND  305 

much  about  belonging  to  something  as  I  did  last 
year."  She  seemed  to  dismiss  the  subject.  The 
long  silence  was  full  of  sweet  scents  and  sights  and 
sounds. 

"I  smelled  that  gingerbread!"  she  exclaimed,  as  the 
little  maid  appeared  with  a  plateful,  and  a  pitcher  of 
lemonade. 

"You  will  find  that  the  Friends  are  very  much  given 
to  good  things,  Mary,"  John  said,  laughing  as  he 
helped  himself  to  a  generous  piece  and  took  a  bite. 

Night  after  night  he  knelt  by  the  big  Creole  bed 
trying  to  bring  his  unruly  thoughts  into  line  and  only 
able  to  repeat  over  and  over  that  one  more  day  was 
gone;  one  more  note  had  fallen  due  and  must  be  paid 
from  his  fast-waning  treasury  of  happiness.  If  the 
next  two  years  could  have  been  unveiled  for  him 
he  would  have  felt  bankrupt  indeed.  But  the  future 
is  merciful,  and  when,  early  in  July,  he  left  Mary  at 
York  Harbor  and  wended  his  way  northward,  his 
mind  was  on  that  other  visit  that  was  to  follow  and 
the  importance  of  getting  his  mother  to  set  a  date. 
He  had  spoken  to  Mary  of  Mrs.  Brown's  suggestion 
and  her  face  had  been  expressive  enough.  Attractive 
as  the  invitations  were  to  pleasure-parties  of  her  con- 
temporaries, and  much  as  she  liked  the  Logan  family 
and  Mrs.  Wurts  and  Jack,  the  intercourse  with  a  man 
of  John's  calibre,  the  honest  deference  he  showed  to 
her  opinions,  and  the  readiness  with  which  he  consulted 
her  on  questions  that  concerned  him  deeply,  were  a 
far  more  thrilling  satisfaction  to  her  earnest  nature 
than  Philip  Dillwyn's  thinly- veiled  love-making  or 
Jack  Wurts'  impetuous  admiration.  Her  training  had 

20 


306  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

made  her  mentally  and  spiritually  too  mature  for  her 
age,  childlike  as  she  still  was  on  the  social  side.  It 
proved  a  summer  of  rapid  development  in  that  way 
too,  and  John,  who  had  a  trick  of  reading  between  the 
lines,  was  not  surprised  that  her  letters  were  full  of 
new  reserves. 

Perhaps  Mary  was  hardly  conscious  of  having  any- 
thing to  conceal  so  far  as  her  own  feelings  were  con- 
cerned; but  the  same  sense  of  loyalty  that  had  pre- 
vented her  telling  of  the  little  episode  with  Philip, 
kept  her  from  writing  of  Jack's  confession  of  love  for 
her  and  wish  to  exact  a  promise  for  that  future  when 
they  should  be  old  enough  to  marry.  Writing  was 
her  only  means  of  confession,  after  all,  for  Mrs. 
Brown's  invitation  came  so  late  that  she  was  definitely 
pledged  to  other  people.  John  could  not  understand 
his  mother,  but  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she 
felt  that  too  many  sweets  were  not  good  for  him  and 
really  only  intended  the  visit  from  Mary  to  be  con- 
tingent on  his  declining  Mrs.  Wharton's  invitation. 

Mary  would  gladly  have  put  aside  other  things, 
when  the  note  finally  came,  though  her  pride  was 
touched,  and  she  realized  that  Mrs.  Brown  was  not 
eager  for  her  acceptance ;  but  she  would  not  subtract 
a  day  from  the  two  weeks  promised  to  Catharine, 
nor  fall  short  of  her  promise  of  help  to  Miss  Newlin 
before  the  school  term  began.  The  Browns  would 
be  home  by  that  time,  anyhow,  she  thought. 

Miss  Newlin,  who  asked  Mary  pointed  questions, 
found  her  less  reticent  than  she  had  been  with  John, 
and  soon  learned  of  Jack's  boyish  proposal  and  Mary's 
surprise  and  regret.  » 


A  PICTURE  OF  HER  IDEAL  HUSBAND  307 

"I  do  wish  he  would  be  friends  with  me  just  the 
same,"  the  girl  said  with  starting  tears.  "But  he 
was  so  hurt  in  his  feelings  he  said  he  didn't  want  to 
see  me  if  I  didn't  care  about  him  that  way,  and  he  was 
so  jealous  of  Philip  and  Edward  and  every  boy  I  ever 
knew.  He  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  speak  to 
me  till  just  as  I  was  coming  away.  I  told  him  I  didn't 
like  the  others  any  better  than  I  did  him,  but  only 
imagine  me  engaged  to  be  married,  now,  Miss  Newlin !" 
She  spoke  with  the  hot  blush  of  an  outraged  child. 

"If  I  ever  was  going  to  be  engaged  it  wouldn't 
be  to  a  boy  like  Jack.  I  would  want  to  marry  someone 
that  I  could  look  up  to;  somebody  who  was  strong 
and  good  and  I  would  always  know  was  right,  and  who 
would  understand  me  and  be  interested  in  the  same 
things  I  was,  and —  '  She  checked  herself,  suddenly 
aware  that  she  had  been  carried  away  by  her  topic 
and  that  Miss  Newlin  was  looking  at  her  with  a  curious 
light  in  her  eyes. 

"And  I  believe,  with  your  nature,  you  would  be 
making  a  wise  choice,  dear,"  she  said  quietly;  "but 
where  will  you  ever  find  such  a  man?" 

"Oh,"  Mary  began  impulsively,  and  stopped  short. 
She  did  not  color  now;  a  strange,  arrested  expression 
met  Miss  Newlin's  observant  gaze,  and  the  rich  rose 
tint  faded  from  her  cheeks.  She  looked  like  one  sud- 
denly confronted  with  a  new  and  startling  experience 
for  which  she  is  all  unprepared.  Self-knowledge  was 
born  at  last  within  her,  not  a  full-grown,  panoplied 
Minerva,  but  a  "naked,  new-born  babe,"  dazzled 
by  the  light  in  which  he  finds  himself,  and  all  un- 
conscious of  that  identity  to  which  he  is  to  grow.  It 


308  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

was  a  vastly  different  thing  from  the  self-knowledge 
of  the  woman  who  all  at  once  knows  herself  to  be 
in  love.  It  was  only  borne  swiftly  in  upon  her 
trembling  heart  that  her  maiden  ideal  was  drawn 
from  a  living  model  and  who  that  model  was. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

ANOTHER  "HILL  OF  DIFFICULTY" 

THAT  was  the  busiest  winter  John  had  ever 
known,  for  his  practice  was  growing  apace. 
He  had  long  ago  availed  himself  of  a  mild 
detective  service,  or  his  generosity  would  have  been 
imposed  upon  at  every  turn  by  those  who  could  well 
afford  to  pay.  He  did  not  decline  paying  clients,  as 
such,  and  he  found  them  more  and  more  insistent 
after  each  successful  case.  For  some  reason,  best 
known  to  himself,  money  had  begun  to  be  more  of  a 
temptation  to  him;  but  he  resolutely  resisted  allow- 
ing time  needed  by  poor  clients  to  be  usurped  by 
rich  ones.  He  always  reminded  himself  that  his 
purpose  was  service,  but  he  considered  that  he  gave 
his  best  service  when  he  used  his  strong  personal 
influence  in  getting  people  to  adjust  their  differences 
without  recourse  to  the  law.  "Mr.  Brown  spends 
most  of  his  time  keeping  folks  out  of  court,"  his  old 
bookkeeper  was  often  heard  to  say,  and  nothing 
could  tempt  John  to  use  his  time  or  talents  to  clear 
a  man  whom  be  believed  to  be  guilty. 

"But  everyone  has  a  right  to  the  benefit  of  law," 
a  friend  had  said  to  him  at  the  beginning  of  his  career; 
"and  a  man  must  be  proved  guilty  before  he  is  con- 
demned." 

(309) 


310  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"That's  true,"  John  had  replied  quietly;  "but 
that's  not  what  I'm  in  business  for.  If  I'm  caught  by 
a  client  who  seems  to  me  innocent  at  first,  I  shall  go 
through  with  the  defense  to  the  best  of  my  ability 
and  not  give  him  away  by  backing  out,  but  I  don't 
think  I'll  often  be  caught;  at  least,  not  in  criminal 
cases."  And  he  rarely  was.  Any  case  that  seemed 
to  him  of  doubtful  righteousness  he  calmly  declined; 
and,  indeed,  it  was  years  now  since  a  man  or  woman 
conscious  of  actual  guilt  had  visited  that  office. 
If  it  once  leaked  out  that  Mr.  Brown  had  declined  a 
case  the  evidence  was  damning  to  the  applicant, 
whether  prosecutor  or  defendant. 

Much  of  his  precious  time  was  taken  up  in  giving 
simple  business  advice,  especially  to  women,  and  for 
years  he  had  paid  the  taxes — not  heavy  ones,  to 
be  sure — on  a  large  tract  of  Tennessee  lands  owned 
by  two  little  ladies  who  had  always  been  land-poor, 
and  were  urging  his  consent  this  winter  to  their 
accepting  what  seemed  to  them  a  princely  sum  from 
a  man  whom  any  business  man  would  have  recognized 
as  a  sharper.  John  had  sympathetically  but  stoutly 
stood  his  ground,  scenting  a  coal  vein  or  a  railroad 
or  both. 

"I'm  going  down  there  one  of  these  days  and  look 
the  place  over  myself,"  he  had  said,  setting  aside 
poor  little  Miss  Letitia  Morgan's  protests.  "You're 
going  to  pay  me  for  everything,  with  interest  and 
compound  interest,  when  your  ship  comes  in,  and  it's 
coming." 

He  had  seen  little  of  Mary,  the  winter  through, 
beyond  those  tantalizing  visits  to  the  school  when  it 


ANOTHER  "HILL  OF  DIFFICULTY"    311 

seemed  to  him  that  he  discounted  all  his  pleasure 
by  "counting  the  moments  that  too  quickly  flee." 
At  Thanksgiving,  Miss  Newlin,  who  had  commenced 
the  term  in  poor  condition,  was  so  ill  that  Mary  would 
not  leave  her,  and  when  the  longed-for  Christmas 
vacation  was  near,  Mary  herself  had  succumbed  to 
the  newly  imported  "  grippe, "  and  had  narrowly 
escaped  pneumonia.  Rigidly  excluded  from  the 
Beechfield  nursery  by  Mary's  orders,  poor  John 
passed  many  evil  quarters-of-an-hour  in  those  two 
long  weeks. 

"They  say  strong  people  get  it  just  as  easily  as 
weak  ones,  and  have  it  even  worse,"  she  had  insisted; 
and  as  usual  she  had  had  her  way.  When,  a  fortnight 
later,  she  and  Ellen  had  been  invited  by  Mrs.  Brown 
to  pour  tea  at  an  afternoon  reception,  the  white 
birthday-party  dress  had  needed  taking  in,  and  the 
brilliant  school-girl  complexion  had  been  several 
shades  paler.  Miss  Newlin  had  seemed  so  tired  when 
John  escorted  her  and  her  charges  to  the  station  that 
evening  that  he  was  not  surprised  to  receive  a  letter 
shortly  after,  telling  of  her  resolution  to  give  the  reins 
of  government  at  the  school  to  her  two  able  coadjutors, 
who  were  to  be  married  in  the  spring.  "I  shall  keep 
my  literature  and  early  English,"  she  wrote;  "but 
everything  else  must  go.  There  is  no  use  trying  longer 
to  deceive  myself  with  the  hope  of  resuming  it  at  some 
future  time.  I  feel  old  and  broken,  with  no  power 
to  gain  back  what  I  have  lost;  but  God  grant  that  I 
be  not  altogether  useless  if  I  can  only  learn  to  accept 
my  limitations." 

The  letter  had  commenced  in  brighter  vein,  with  an 


312  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

account  of  Mary's  victory  in  one  of  the  impromptu 
debates  that  always  followed  the  "current  events" 
class.  In  this  instance  the  subject  given  out  had  been 
the  burning  one  of  Woman  Suffrage,  and  Mary's 
side,  with  Mary  easily  leading,  had  championed  the 
unpopular  cause.  John's  eyes  were  full  of  mirth  as 
he  read  the  record,  but  the  mirth  had  been  short- 
lived. Miss  Newlin's  quiet  acceptance  of  her  fate 
went  to  his  heart  and  the  letter  filled  him  with  sad- 
ness and  uncertainty. 

Its  sequel  reached  him  some  weeks  later  across  the 
counter  of  a  dingy  hotel  in  Northern  Tennessee, 
where  he  had  gone  on  his  detective  quest  for  the  pa- 
thetic little  ladies  who  were  good  friends,  if  unprofita- 
ble clients.  He  had  come  in  from  a  very  fatiguing 
but  highly  satisfactory  day's  work  and  was  thinking 
exultantly  that  he  might  pack  his  valise  and  say  good- 
bye to  rancid  butter  and  dirty  table-cloths  as  early 
on  the  morrow  as  the  stage  would  start.  He  did  not 
carry  the  letter  to  his  room  for  the  good  reason  that 
its  cramped  accommodations  were  no  more  alluring 
than  the  untidy  hall,  with  its  array  of  cuspidors, 
where  at  least  he  could  be  by  himself  at  this  supper 
hour  and  where  there  were  one  or  two  chairs  on  which 
he  was  not  afraid  to  stretch  his  tired  limbs. 

Miss  Newlin  told  in  briefest  fashion  that  the  doctor 
wished  her  to  give  up  work  altogether  and  go  abroad 
for  a  year  at  least. 

I  should  like  to  take  Mary,  of  course,  but  you  and  she  must 
decide.  I  shall  take  my  valuable  maid,  Rachel,  so  Mary  will 
have  no  responsibility  nor  care.  But  I  am  afraid  she  will  not 
go  unless  you  urge  it,  and  I  know  what  that  would  mean  for 


ANOTHER  "HILL  OF  DIFFICULTY"    313 

you  to  do.  I  am  too  great  a  coward  even  to  break  the  news  to 
her.  There  is  not  much  left  of  the  school  term,  and  in  the 
vacation  it  is  probable  that  I  should  not  see  much  of  her  if  I 
were  at  home,  so  she  need  not  come  against  her  will;  but  I  am 
not  ill,  and  hope  to  avert  illness  by  this  means  and  to  give  her 
a  great  deal  of  enjoyment  as  well  as  profit  by  a  European  jour- 
ney. She  has  lived  much  abroad,  but  you  know  she  has  seen 
little  and  is  at  a  most  receptive  age. 

John's  eyes  were  on  the  floor  and  his  intent  face 
seemed  considering  only  how  it  was  possible,  with 
so  many  targets  provided,  for  so  many  shots  to  miss 
the  mark.  At  length  he  took  up  the  letter  and  read 
it  over  again,  weighing  each  clause  as  he  would  have 
weighed  the  evidence  for  a  baffling  case.  Reared 
though  he  had  been  in  the  "old  school"  systems  in 
every  department  of  life,  he  was  not  one  of  those  who 
hold  that  to  do  good  a  medicine  must  needs  be  bad. 
The  fact  that  his  whole  soul  rose  in  protest  against 
this  medicine  was  in  his  eyes  no  reason  for  taking  it. 

The  gray-haired  negro  who  came  to  remind  him 
that  supper  was  on,  looked  at  his  face  and  hoped  with 
respectful  familiarity  that  "his  folks  was  all  well." 
John  was  already  on  good  terms  with  the  whole  work- 
ing force  of  the  tavern,  from  the  manager,  who  was 
man  of  all  work,  to  the  jolly  black  cook;  and  the 
best  the  house  afforded  was  his  to  command.  Could 
angels  do  more?  Well,  John  had  a  private  conviction 
that  an  energetic  angel  with  a  pail  of  suds,  a  pot  of 
glue  and  a  few  nails,  could  have  materially  altered  the 
"circumstances,"  but,  as  usual,  he  kept  his  own  council 
where  it  was  unasked.  He  tried  not  to  seem  unappre- 
ciative  of  stringy  fried  chicken  and  corn  griddle-cakes 


314  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

and  molasses  (the  molasses  was  good,  and  made  a 
substitute  for  butter),  and  even  managed  to  exchange 
ideas  with  the  waiter — who  had  some — while  steadily 
revolving  in  his  mind  the  pros  and  cons  of  Miss  New- 
lin's  plan. 

The  coming  sun  had  only  just  reddened  the  eastern 
sky  when  he  set  out  in  the  ramshackle  stage  for  Bridge- 
ville,  the  railway  station,  ten  miles  away.  He  had 
spent  the  night  to  some  purpose,  and  his  mind  was 
made  up — provided,  always,  that  Mary  would  agree 
with  him.  He  knew  that  Mrs.  Wharton  was  to  spend 
the  summer  abroad  and  that  her  passage  out  was 
engaged  for  early  May.  He  had  carefully  considered 
the  question  of  asking  his  mother's  chaperonage 
for  Mary  for  the  summer,  and  the  mere  thought  made 
a  sledge-hammer  of  his  heart.  Mrs.  Brown  was  much 
more  unbending  toward  the  beautiful,  graceful  young 
woman,  whose  manners  were  no  longer  open  to  criti- 
cism, and  who  had  made  a  distinct  sensation  at  the 
reception.  She  had  acknowledged  to  John  afterward 
that  it  had  seemed  more  like  "old  times,"  and  the 
enthusiastic  comments  reaching  her  from  all  sides 
had  not  left  her  unmoved.  She  had  even  felt  a  certain 
pride  of  proprietorship  in  this  universally  acclaimed 
loveliness,  and  had  announced  her  intention  of  giving 
Mary  a  "coming-out"  tea  when  she  finished  school, 
and  properly  introducing  her  to  their  friends. 

But  John  knew  that  her  ingrained  jealousy  of  the 
girl  was  not  really  less,  and  he  remembered  the  episode 
of  the  sermon,  little  more  than  a  year  ago.  Perhaps 
he  also  recalled  the  Woman  Suffrage  debate.  His 
mother's  state  of  feeling  toward  his  ward  was  too 


ANOTHER  "HILL  OF  DIFFICULTY"    315 

gratifying  and  delightful  to  risk  spoiling,  and  he  told 
himself  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh  that  it  was  more  likely 
to  grow  if  it  was  not  over-forced  for  the  present. 
One  other  thought  knocked  at  the  door  of  his  heart; 
but  his  mind  hardly  dared  admit  it.  He  would  wait 
and  see  how  Mary  took  the  news. 

She  was  so  changed  in  many  ways  that  he  could 
not  count  on  her  as  he  used,  except  in  matters  of 
principle.  Especially,  he  could  not  help  noticing 
the  difference  in  her  manner  toward  himself.  As  he 
laid  the  plan  before  her  a  few  days  later  he  watched 
her  face,  his  own  immovable  except  for  the  changing 
color.  There  was  no  impetuous  exclamation;  no 
frank  resistance  to  such  a  proposal,  as  there  undoubt- 
edly would  have  been  a  year  ago.  Only  a  white  still- 
ness and  widened  eyes  that  refused  to  meet  his. 
The  blood  was  behaving  strangely  in  John's  arteries. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go?" 

"I!" 

She  raised  her  eyes  as  high  as  his  lips,  but  dropped 
them  quickly,  and  a  warm  flush  mounted  to  her  fore- 
head. 

"I  mean,  do  you  think  I  ought  to  go?" 

John  tried  to  steady  his  voice  as  he  gave  her  part 
of  his  reasons  for  thinking  so.  He  saw  she  understood 
the  rest.  With  sudden  resolution,  he  played  his 
trump  card. 

"Would  you  feel  differently  if  I  went  over  and 
joined  you  for  two  or  three  months  in  the  summer?" 

"Oh,  John!"  Her  face  was  a  sunrise.  "Could 
you  possibly?" 

John's  dyke  was  in  imminent  peril.     No  humblest 


316  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

man  but  would  have  gained  hope  from  the  eyes 
raised  to  his  then;  but  he  must  not  take  advantage: 
the  watchword  of  his  conscience  must  be  firmly, 
unalterably,  "Wait!" 

No  one  who  saw  that  quiet  parting  on  the  deck 
of  the  great  ocean  liner  a  few  weeks  later  would  have 
suspected  the  feeling  underlying  it.  No  one,  that 
is,  who  had  not  Miss  Newlin's  key. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IN  WHICH  MARY  RECEIVES  AN  EXCITING  LETTER 
AND  HER  GUARDIAN  GETS  ANOTHER  RING 

THE  post-boy  had  been  good  to  Mary  that 
midsummer  day  in  the  little  Tyrolese  village 
of  Bad  Gastein,  and  she  sat  in  the  flickering 
shade  with  the  roar  of  the  waterfalls  in  her  ears,  and 
her  eyes  lifted  for  the  moment  from  the  treasures 
in  her  lap  to  the  glory  of  the  sapphire  sky  above  the 
mountain-tops.  But  she  was  not  thinking  of  the 
beauties  of  nature  nor  "the  witchery  of  the  soft 
blue  sky."  She  took  up  one  of  the  letters  again, 
and  Ellen's  bodily  presence  seemed  beside  her,  so 
vivid  was  the  stamp  of  her  personality  on  the  well- 
filled  pages. 

WOOD  LEDGE,  June  17th. 
DEAREST  MARY: 

I  am  just  bursting  to  have  a  good  talk  with  you,  but  I  must 
try  to  content  myself  with  pen  and  paper.  I  am  always  running 
out  of  foreign  stamps.  Well,  I  saw  Edward  and  Philip  off  yes- 
terday by  the  "Etruria,"  and  then  came  back  here.  Mother 
feels  it  is  too  sad  a  place  for  me,  and  of  course  she  misses  me 
at  home,  but  I  know  she  is  pleased  that  Caroline  has  taken 
such  a  fancy  to  me  (indeed  it's  much  more  than  just  a  fancy) 
and  she  would  like  to  do  anything  we  can  to  help  her.  It  is 
tremendous  to  be  left  alone  with  all  that  responsibility.  Money 
is  a  splendid  thing,  but  I  think  I  prefer  having  just  enough. 
You  never  saw  anything  like  the  avalanche  of  begging  letters 

(317) 


318  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

that  come  by  every  mail.  Perhaps  some  of  the  other  letters 
are  influenced  by  her  millions  too,  but  she  is  so  perfectly  dear 
I  should  think  everyone  would  fall  in  love  with  her  for  herself. 

It  is  very  exciting  to  be  here  and  see  the  bouquets  and  pres- 
ents and  notes,  and  the  constant  stream  of  men  coming  out 
to  call.  She  makes  me  come  into  the  reception  room  or  out 
on  the  piazza  with  her,  generally,  when  one  is  announced,  but 
I  am  not  willing  to  be  a  spoil-sport,  so  I  escape  when  I  can. 
I  was  caught  the  other  day,  and  you  could  never  guess  by  whom. 
— Mr.  Chandler! — I  had  gone  into  the  library  to  hunt  for  a 
book,  and  Graves,  the  grand  English  butler  who  almost  scares 
me  stiff  every  time  he  looks  at  me,  showed  him  in,  not  knowing 
there  was  anyone  there.  He  knew  me  at  once,  I  saw,  so  I  just 
came  forward  and  spoke  to  him,  and  said  I  always  felt  so  grateful 
to  him  for  helping  us  out  in  the  woods  that  day,  and  that  we 
were  both  sorry  that  Edward  forgot  to  introduce  him  to  us. 

He  changed  color  and  gave  me  a  very  odd  look,  and  I  saw 
perfectly  that  he  knew  Edward  didn't  forget  at  all.  I  told  him 
that  Edward  was  just  sailing  for  Europe  and  that  you  had  been 
over  there  for  some  time,  and  he  said  he  knew.  I  wondered 
how.  I  knew  he  .was  very  much  impressed  with  you,  Mary, 
and  would  have  liked  to  meet  you,  but  I  know  now  why  Mrs. 
Townsend  didn't  introduce  him  either  when  he  turned  up  at 
the  hotel.  They  say  she  is  very  sensitive  over  the  gossip  about 
him. 

While  I  was  talking  to  him,  standing  up,  Caroline  came  in 
and  I  tried  to  slip  away.  She  looks  very  frail  in  her  black 
clothes,  and  his  expression  was  so  nice  and  sympathetic  as  he 
shook  hands  with  her,  but  not  a  bit  like  a  man  in  love,  and  he 
even  tried  to  call  me  back.  I  only  made  some  excuse  and  ran 
away. 

Afterward  Caroline  called  me  into  her  sitting-room,  and  she 
was  more  unnerved  than  I  had  seen  her  through  all  her  trouble. 
She  said  I  was  so  sensible  she  was  going  to  confide  in  me,  and 
she  told  me  a  long  story  about  Mr.  Chandler.  It  seems  she  was 
very  much  attracted  by  him  and  she  made  up  her  mind  she 
was  going  to  be  nice  to  him  no  matter  what  stories  they  told, 
but  Cousin  James  was  very  much  opposed  to  her  receiving 


MARY  RECEIVES  A  LETTER         319 

him.  He  didn't  absolutely  forbid  it,  but  he  told  her  straight 
out  that  Mr.  Chandler  was  a  very  immoral  man  and  had  been 
found  guilty  in  a  notorious  divorce  suit  when  he  was  hardly 
more  than  a  boy;  that  he  hardly  ever  went  with  women,  and 
really  nice  ones  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  him;  and 
he  had  seen  him  in  very  gay  company.  Caroline  said  they 
came  nearer  quarreling  than  they  ever  had  in  their  lives,  and  she 
had  actually  opposed  her  father  and  let  Mr.  Chandler  call  on 
her.  She  said,  "I  told  father  that  he  didn't  want  to  marry 
me  and  never  was  the  least  bit  loverlike  or  even  familiar"; 
but  now  that  Cousin  James  is  dead,  she  made  up  her  mind  to 
tell  Mr.  Chandler  that  she  couldn't  receive  him  again.  She 
said  she  had  never  done  such  a  hard  thing  in  her  life,  but  she 
felt  she  owed  it  to  her  father. 

Mr.  Chandler  behaved  so  beautifully  about  it  that  she  broke 
down  before  him  and  cried  like  a  baby.  He  turned  perfectly 
white,  she  said,  but  he  only  said  that  he  honored  her  feeling 
and  admired  her  courage,  and  that  Cousin  James  was  right. 
He  said  he  would  always  value  the  friendship  she  had  shown 
him,  and  that  her  tears  proved  that  she  was  a  true  woman. 
If  you'll  believe  me,  Mary,  I  cried  too,  nearly  as  hard  as  she 
did.  It  was  really  very  delicate  of  him  not  to  put  her  display 
of  feeling  down  to  a  secret  penchant  for  himself.  She  held  out 
her  hand  when  he  rose  to  go,  which  he  did  very  soon,  and  he 
took  it  and  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  he  said:  "Miss 
Hutchinson,  I  should  like  you  to  believe  one  thing  of  me.  If  I 
have  forfeited  the  friendship  of  good  women,  at  least  I  have 
never  betrayed  one  nor  associated  with  any  not  in  my  own 
class."  I  can  see  she  hasn't  got  over  it  yet,  but  neither  have 
I  for  that  matter. 

There  are  some  drawbacks  about  being  so  popular:  you  have 
to  hurt  so  many  people's  feelings.  I  don't  know  whether  I 
am  letting  "cats  out,"  but  you  know  Mr.  Brown's  friend,  Mr. 
Raymond,  altered  this  house  for  Cousin  James,  and  he  has 
been  here  a  good  deal  since.  It  seems  Cousin  James  liked  him 
ever  so  much  and  encouraged  his  coming.  Cousin  Mary  Pot- 
ter, who  came  here  to  live  before  the  house  was  changed,  says 
that  Caroline  finally  felt  obliged  to  hint  to  Mr.  Raymond  that 


320  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

she  was  a  very  good  friend,  but  she  didn't  want  him  to  get  any 
false  ideas  in  his  head;  and  he  hasn't  been  here  since.  She  did 
it  very  nicely,  Cousin  Mary  says,  but  he  took  it  to  heart  far 
more  than  she  expected.  She  thought  a  "stitch  in  time  would 
save  nine,"  but  I  suppose  the  nine  were  needed  already.  That 
was  just  after  Cousin  James'  death,  more  than  a  month  ago. 

Cousin  Mary  knows  Mrs.  Brown  very  well.  She  has  done 
a  lot  of  work  with  her  on  the  Women's  Auxiliary,  and  she  says 
she  thinks  the  only  thing  that  made  her  sick  was  the  thought 
of  her  son's  going  away.  Since  he  gave  it  up  she  seems  well 
enough.  She  has  gone  all  the  way  up  to  Northeast  and  she 
couldn't  have  done  that  if  she'd  been  really  ill.  I  do  think 
it  is  a  burning  shame  if  he  had  to  stay  at  home  for  nothing  but 
hysterics!  Saints  are  grand  things,  but  they  never  get  any  fun 
in  this  world;  I  am  sure  Mr.  Brown  will  have  a  perfect  time  in 
the  next  one.  You  said  he  might  go  over  later  and  bring  you 
back.  I  do  hope  he  can,  and  I  wish  it  was  going  to  be  next 
week,  only  I  should  hate  to  disappoint  the  boys.  They  are 
looking  forward  to  having  a  gorgeous  time  with  you  in  the 
Tyrol  and  Switzerland.  I  never  saw  Edward  so  excited  about 
anything. 

Mary  was  already  in  receipt  of  the  messages  from 
the  travelers  telling  of  Edward's  hope  of  joining  her 
in  a  few  days  and  of  Philip's  making  a  pilgrimage 
to  Bayreuth  to  the  Wagner  Festival  and  taking  a 
look  at  some  of  the  Northern  galleries  while  he  was 
in  Germany.  Mary  and  Miss  Newlin  had  already 
passed  through  Berlin  and  Dresden  on  their  way  to 
the  Saltzkammergut. 

Mary  was  a  little  surprised.  She  would  have  been 
more  so,  perhaps,  if  she  had  heard  a  colloquy  in  the 
compartment  of  a  continental  train,  which  two  young 
Americans  had  to  themselves. 

"You  go  on  and  join  them  first,  Ed.    You  needn't 


MARY  RECEIVES  A  LETTER          321 

try  to  hoodwink  me.  I  can  see  through  you  like 
a  window-pane.  But  see  here,  old  man,"  with  an 
entire  change  of  manner,  "you  need  never  be  jealous 
of  me.  I'm  out  of  the  running  in  that  quarter.  I 
was  rather  smitten  at  first,  and  I'm  awfully  fond  of 
her,  but  she's  a  little  too — high-flown — and  serious 
for  me — for  keeps.  She  likes  you  a  good  deal  better 
than  she  does  me,  anyhow;  so  if  either  of  us  has  a 
right  to  play  second  fiddle,  it's  me.  That  from  a 
fresh  B.A.  of  Harvard  University." 

Edward  Logan's  face  had  been  very  grave  as  he 
said  stoutly:  "She's  almost  too  young  yet,  even  to 
think  about  in  that  way,  but  if  I  were  willing  to  wait 
for  a  couple  of  years  to  speak  to  her,  some  other 
fellow  wouldn't  be,  and  would  cut  in  ahead.  I  should 
like  to  think  I  had  any  chance  with  her,  but  just 
now  she  cares  more  for  her  guardian  than  for  the  whole 
kit  and  crew  of  us.  Only  he's  too  old  for  her — to 
marry."  He  colored  hotly  as  he  uttered  the  word. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  was  Philip's  easy  rejoinder,  as  he 
made  himself  comfortable  with  his  feet  on  the  oppo- 
site seat. 

The  object  of  his  ejaculatory  prayer  was  at  that 
very  moment — I  am  allowing  for  difference  of  time 
between  Aix-la-Chapelle  and  Northeast  Harbor — 
thinking  of  the  self-same  subject,  but  in  different 
vein. 

Soon  after  his  parting  with  Mary,  John  had  paid 
a  visit  to  a  little  shop  on  Thirteenth  Street,  where 
the  family  clocks  and  watches  were  always  cleaned 
and  repaired.  The  jeweler,  for  so  he  labeled  him- 
self in  gilt  letters  on  the  show  window,  made  very 

21 


322  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

few  sales  from  his  small  stock  and  spent  most  of  his 
time  squinting  through  a  magnifying  glass  at  the 
interior  workings  of  the  timepieces  entrusted  to  his 
care.  Perhaps  it  was  this  habit  that  had  surrounded 
his  eyes  with  such  an  array  of  crows'  feet.  He  rose 
with  a  bright  smile  as  John  entered,  and  they  chatted 
like  old  friends,  while  the  big  customer,  who  seemed 
to  fill  the  whole  shop,  detached  his  watch  and  handed 
it  across  the  glass  show  case. 

"I  see  you  still  have  the  ring,"  he  said,  looking 
down  into  a  velvet  tray  where  a  few  trinkets  were 
displayed  in  haphazard  style. 

"Yes,"  the  man  answered,  with  a  patient  smile, 
"I  guess  I'm  not  likely  to  part  with  it  in  a  hurry." 

John  stood  looking  down  at  it  with  a  very  thought- 
ful face  and  heightened  color,  while  the  other  seated 
himself  and  opened  the  watch,  screwing  a  monocle 
into  his  left  eye  preparatory  to  giving  the  little  wheels 
his  whole  attention. 

There  was  silence  for  several  minutes;  then  John 
said  quietly,  "I've  made  up  my  mind  I'd  like  to  have 
it." 

The  jeweler  almost  dropped  his  precious  handful 
as  he  looked  up  in  amazement. 

"I  have  a  windfall  now  and  then,  and  I  had  one 
yesterday,"  John  went  on.  "A  thousand  dollars 
dropped  from  the  clouds,  you  might  say,  and  is  burn- 
ing my  pocket  already.  I  think  you  told  me  once 
that  that  was  what  the  ring  was  worth." 

"I  said  I  would  be  glad  to  take  eight  hundred 
and  come  out  whole,  barring  interest,"  the  jeweler 
said,  with  a  vivid  flush  and  trembling  fingers,  as  he 


MARY  RECEIVES  A  LETTER          323 

opened  the  back  of  the  case  and  lifted  out  the  tray. 
"I'll  never  be  as  big  a  fool  again,  I  know  that;  but  in 
this  case  I  really  hadn't  much  choice." 

The  ring  in  question  was  adorned  with  two  dia- 
monds, not  very  large,  but  of  extraordinary  bril- 
liance and  perfectly  matched.  It  had  been  accepted 
in  settlement  of  a  debt  some  years  before,  and  John 
knew  it  by  heart,  and  all  the  circumstances  connected 
with  it.  It  was  not  a  ring  to  be  easily  disposed  of 
in  such  a  shop,  and  the  jeweler  had  found  his  brothers 
in  the  trade  disinclined  to  pay  half  the  value  of  the 
stones.  Their  real  value  was  not  evident  to  the 
uninitiated,  and  the  arrangement  was  not  happy 
from  an  esthetic  point  of  view.  The  two  brilliant 
gems  were  embedded  side  by  side  in  a  heavy  wrought 
gold  band,  and  the  invariable  criticism  was  that 
there  should  be  three  stones,  or  that  they  should  be 
differently  set. 

"I  have  a  kind  of  superstition  about  it,  I  think," 
their  owner  had  once  told  John.  "It  was  intended 
for  a  betrothal  ring,  and  the  stones  are  such  perfect 
matches  I  never  could  bring  myself  to  separate  them 
or  change  them." 

John  had  never  forgotten  the  simple  statement. 
"And  yet  he  needs  that  money,"  he  had  thought 
with  a  quickening  of  sympathetic  kinship. 

This  time  he  had  drawn  the  "windfall"  check  from 
his  wallet  and  asked  for  a  pen.  "I'll  just  endorse 
this  over  to  you,"  he  said.  "You  ought  to  have  at 
least  two  hundred  for  back  interest,  not  counting 
profit." 

And  the  man  had  been  cut  short  in  his  stammered 


324  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

thanks  by  John's  seizing  the  ring  and  beating  a  hasty 
retreat. 

Now  he  looked  at  it  on  its  little  velvet  bed  and  his 
will  repeated  that  resolve  to  wait.  "She  is  too  young 
to  know  her  own  heart  yet."  His  thoughts  flew  to 
Edward  Logan  and  Philip  Dillwyn  on  their  way  to 
join  her,  perhaps,  while  he  might  not  stir  hand  nor 
foot!  "I  must  not  bind  her  in  any  way;  not  until 
she  is  twenty  at  least  and  has  had  more  experience. 
Better  for  her  to  change  now  than  when  it  is  too 
late;  and  she  would  never  break  a  promise."  But 
the  two  "perfectly  matched"  stones  were  like  an 
omen.  A  hundred  influences  of  the  flesh  might  come 
between  him  and  Mary  now.  He  looked  at  himself 
in  the  common  little  glass  over  his  bureau.  There 
were  some  influences  he  could  never  exert  over  her 
as  another  man  might.  His  uncouth  middle  age 
(he  did  not  mince  matters)  was  a  poor  match  for  her 
— his  face  contracted  painfully  at  the  memory  of 
hers.  "But  our  spirits  match;  I  understand  her!" 

After  all,  would  it  be  wrong  to  bind  her  by  a  promise 
— for  her  own  sake?  Philip  Dillwyn  or  Edward 
Logan  might  be  able  to  make  her  happy  in  the  long 
run,  if  either  of  them  was  able  to  satisfy  her  at  first. 
There  was  no  danger  for  her  in  this  sort  of  intercourse. 
He  could  reason  it  all  calmly  out.  But — did  he  not 
know  her  well  enough  to  realize  the  possibility  of 
other  dangers?  He  had  not  heard  her  confession 
to  Mrs.  Wharton  of  her  father's  opinion  of  her;  but 
that  same  opinion  he  had  reached  by  different  roads. 
He  knew  she  had  it  in  her  to  forget  all  prudence, 
as  her  father  had  forgotten,  and  to  be  more  unhappy 


MARY  RECEIVES  A  LETTER          325 

than  her  father  had  ever  been.  If,  the  first  glamor 
past,  she  even  found  herself  tied  to  a  man  who  mis- 
understood  her;  who  shared  none  of  her  ideals; 
who —  John's  imagination  tried  not  to  go  beyond 
that,  but  a  black  fog  seemed  to  rise  over  his  eyes. 
Of  her  promise  to  her  father  she  had  told  him.  From 
marriage  he  knew  he  had  the  power  to  save  her;  but 
might  he  not  try  to  use  his  other  power  over  her  to  save 
her  from  the  mistaken  passion  itself?  Her  eyes  had 
told  him  that  she  loved  him — not  as  she  was  capable 
of  loving — but  he  would  try  to  win  that  too,  in  spite 
of  his  handicaps.  The  only  marriage  that  could 
ever  make  her  permanently  happy  was  a  true  marriage 
of  the  spirit;  he  knew  that.  And  yet,  at  eighteen, 
with  her  temperament — !  Why  had  God  ordained 
that  the  mating-time  of  humanity  was  the  age  least 
governed  by  judgment?  That  tremendous  "Why!" 
— And  yet  He  had  so  ordained.  Was  there  a  purpose 
in  the  Infinite  Thought  further  reaching  than  our 
finite  ideals  of  congeniality  and  lasting  happiness? 
Was  the  marriage  "made  in  Heaven"  a  marriage 
of  sense,  then — not  a  marriage  of  spirit?  Looking 
"through  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God,"  one  came 
only  to  "natural  selection"  and  the  "survival  of  the 
fittest." 

"Who  am  I  that  I  should  try  to  make  myself  a 
little  Providence  for  her!"  he  said,  with  a  sudden 
sense  of  impotent  pain.  "Sophistry!  Humbug!" 
He  looked  down  again  at  the  twin  stones  and  his 
hand  closed  over  them  fiercely,  while  the  hot  blood 
surged  to  his  face:  "Iwaw/her!"  The  concentrated 
force  of  the  three  short  words  was  the  same;  the  power 


326  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

of  those  clenched  hands  was  the  same  that  had  sent 
his  balls  over  the  club-house.  A  half  hour  later 
that  same  right  hand  was  guiding  a  steady  pen  across 
the  thin  sheets  of  "overland  mail."  Twelve  closely 
written  pages — of  what?  Of  heartfelt  commentary 

on  Stanley's  "  Christian  Institutions." 

******* 

"Cousin  Mary"  Potter — quite  at  variance  with 
her  usual  habit  of  charitable  construction— had 
done  Mrs.  Brown  an  injustice.  If  her  ill-health  did 
seem  to  have  been  caused  by  the  thought  of  parting 
with  John,  it  was  far  from  being  "hysterics."  No 
such  idea  could  ever  have  entered  John's  head,  though 
he  knew  that  she  improved  at  once  when  his  proposed 
journey  was  given  up.  Late  in  the  summer,  however, 
she  flagged  alarmingly,  and  when  she  entered  the 
door  of  her  Arch  Street  home,  so  tired  with  her  long 
journey  that  John  had  almost  to  carry  her  up  the 
steep  white  steps,  it  was  never  to  leave  it  again. 

The  eminent  diagnostician  called  in  to  consult 
with  the  family  doctor,  pronounced  her  the  victim 
of  an  incurable  organic  disease;  but  she  suffered 
little,  and  seemed  even  to  be  improving.  When  the 
first  mild  days  of  early  spring  came,  John  spoke 
confidently  of  taking  her  for  a  drive  in  the  Park  as 
soon  as  the  frost  had  entirely  left  the  ground  and  the 
damp  winds  were  past;  but  the  drive  was  postponed 
from  day  to  day,  and  early  in  April  a  paralytic  stroke 
put  all  thought  of  improvement  out  of  the  question. 

A  fortnight  later,  a  second  and  still  severer  stroke 
cut  short  the  helpless,  speechless  misery  of  those 
long  days  and  nights,  and  John  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
AN  ENCOUNTER  THAT  WAS  NOT  CHANCE 

"TF'M  sure  John  must  have  answered  my  cable, 

and  our  sudden  move  has  made  us  miss  his 

message.      Of  course,  we  shall  have  to  miss 

two  or  three  letters,  but  that  doesn't  matter;   he  is 

sure  to  be  at  the  dock  to  meet  us.     Only  I  should 

have  liked  some  definite  word.     It  was  no  use  cabling 

Mrs.  Wharton;  but  I  wrote  to  the  White  Star  dock 

here,  so  she  will  get  the  letter  as  soon  as  she  lands." 

''She  will  be  dreadfully  disappointed  not  to  see 
you.  Didn't  she  say  this  was  to  be  a  whole  year's 
trip?" 

"Yes,  and  she  expected  John  to  come  over  next 
month — 'as  soon  as  he  could  settle  the  most  impor- 
tant things  about  his  mother's  estate,'  she  said.  He 
never  wrote  me  of  any  such  possibility."  Suddenly 
her  face  was  suffused  with  a  warm  glow.  "It  seems 
impossible  that  we  shall  see  him  in — how  many  days 
does  this  old  tub  take  to  cross?"  She  breathed 
quickly. 

"Ten,  I  think."  Miss  Newlin,  leaning  back  in 
her  steamer  chair,  closed  her  eyes  and  sighed.  "Ten 
days  of  purgatory  for  me,  I  am  afraid,  in  spite  of  the 
medicine.  I  can  feel  the  motion  already." 

"Oh,    Miss   Newlin!"      Mary   laughed.      "Why 

(327) 


328  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

the  water  is  as  quiet  as  a  lamb!  The  head  steward 
has  put  our  chairs  in  a  very  nice  place,  so  near  the 
door  and  right  behind  that  bulkhead — that's  what 
he  called  it.  It's  a  great  protection  from  the  wind." 

"I'm  sorry  they  aren't  on  the  sunny  side  for  your 
sake.  I  don't  expect  to  spend  much  time  up  here 
myself.  One  thing,  we  are  quite  away  from  the 
crowd.  I  get  so  tired  of  the  everlasting  tramp, 
tramp.  I  hope  they  won't  come  round  here  much. 
Rachel  can  act  as  a  duenna  for  you  when  I  am  not 
able  to,  but  I  am  afraid  you'll  see  more  of  your  aunt 
and  cousins  than  you  want  to.  It  is  very  strange 
your  coming  upon  them  so,  after  all  these  years!" 

"Their  seats  are  on  the  other  side;  I  looked.  My 
aunt  is  awfully  nice  to  me,"  Mary  said  with  sudden 
gravity.  "She  really  did  show  a  great  deal  of  feeling 
when  we  met  and  I  think  she  is  fond  of  me  already. 
I  like  her  too,  and  Kitty  is  a  nice,  harmless  little 
thing  and  very  pretty;  but  I  just  hate  Estelle.  I 
can't  tell  you  the  way  she  affects  me.  I  feel  as  Martin 
Luther  must  have  when  he  threw  that  inkstand  at 
the  Devil.  I  do,"  relaxing  from  an  expression  so 
hard  that  Miss  Newlin  looked  at  her  in  astonishment, 
to  a  shamefaced  smile.  "And  the  worst  of  it  is, 
I  can't  help  seeing  that  I  look  horribly  like  her!" 

Miss  Newlin  burst  into  one  of  her  genial  laughs 
and  patted  the  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  beside 
her.  "Don't  worry,"  she  said.  "Your  features 
are  really  a  good  deal  in  the  same  mould,  but  the 
expression  is  as  different  as  day  and  night — and  her 
eyes —  She  seemed  to  consider  words  unequal 
to  the  task  of  comparison.  "What  would  Mr. 


ENCOUNTER  THAT  WAS  NOT  CHANCE  329 

Brown  say  to  such  a  vindictive  spirit?"  with  a  quiz- 
zical, sidewise  glance. 

"John!"  Mary  smiled  softly.  "He  is  as  good  as 
gold  himself,  but  he  never  expects  anybody  else  to 
be,  especially  me — oh!" 

She  had  glanced  along  the  deck,  and  Miss 
Newlin  attributed  the  sudden  start  and  violent 
change  of  color  to  the  fact  that  the  obnoxious 
Estelle  was  bearing  down  upon  them  in  the  company 
of  a  man — a  strikingly  handsome  man — in  a  long 
ulster  and  regulation  steamer  cap.  Apparently 
they  had  come  on  this  side  to  enjoy  greater  privacy 
in  their  stroll,  for  Miss  Gill's  face  did  not  express 
unalloyed  pleasure  in  the  encounter.  She  had  per- 
fect command  of  herself,  however,  and  it  was  not 
in  her  plan  to  be  cool  to  Mary.  Just  now,  too,  she 
was  in  a  state  of  high  good  humor  and  disposed  to 
be  condescending  to  all  the  world,  even  Mary,  whose 
dislike  she  instinctively  returned.  She  was  convinced 
that  Mr.  Chandler,  the  best  bred  and  best  looking 
man  she  had  ever  met,  had  already  succumbed  to 
her  own  charms,  and  gave  herself  little  self-satisfied 
"airs"  in  consequence.  She  had  met  him  in  Paris 
only  a  couple  of  weeks  previously  (a  day  or  two  before 
her  meeting  with  this  unknown  cousin),  and  he  had 
very  soon  begun  to  cultivate  her  society  in  a  dignified 
way.  She  had  not  built  high  hopes  on  his  somewhat 
cold  courtesy  until  she  suddenly  discovered  that  he 
had  changed  his  plans  and  was  sailing  home  on  their 
steamer.  He  had  never  been  very  communicative 
as  to  his  own  affairs,  but  she  was  sure  his  resolution 
to  go  home  at  once  was  a  sudden  one,  and  his  choosing 


330  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

that  particular  steamer  "when  he  had  no  need  for 
economy,"  was  a  very  exciting  coincidence. 

She  half  halted  a  moment  abreast  of  the  two  chairs 
behind  the  bulkhead  and  made  a  commonplace  remark. 
It  was  no  part  of  her  plan,  however,  to  introduce  her 
companion  just  yet,  and  he  may  have  seen  that; 
for,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  and  when  Miss  Gill 
was  already  moving  forward,  he  stopped  stock-still 
in  front  of  Mary. 

"Miss  Farnham,"  he  said,  with  entire  self-possession 
and  only  an  unusual  spark  in  the  brilliant  gray  eyes, 
as  he  stood  uncovered  before  her.  "You  would  hardly 
remember  me,  but  I  have  a  very  clear  memory  of 
you,  with  a  bucket  in  one  hand  and  a  basket  in  the 
other.  It  was  a  strenuous  occasion." 

Mary  was  no  longer  a  child.  She  was  not  only  a 
woman,  but  a  woman  with  some  experience  of  her 
own  power;  and  her  ease  of  manner  was  equal  to 
his,  in  spite  of  her  heightened  color. 

"I  am  sure  you  are  not  used  to  being  so  quickly 
forgotten.  If  you  remember  my  muscle,  I  had  much 
greater  reason  to  remember  yours.  Miss  Newlin," 
turning  toward  her  companion  with  smiling  readiness, 
"Mr.  Chandler  came  to  our  assistance  one  time  in  the 
Adirondacks,  when  one  of  our  guides  hurt  his  arm 
on  a  long  carry  and  we  were  stalled  late  in  the  after- 
noon. He  carried  the  canoe  on  his  back  for  half 
a  mile." 

Miss  Newlin  acknowledged  the  introduction  with 
a  certain  primness,  and  her  little  brown  eyes  looked 
intently  into  the  gray  ones. 

"Why,  how  exciting!      I  never  knew  you  were 


ENCOUNTER  THAT  WAS  NOT  CHANCE  331 

friends,"  Estelle  Gill  exclaimed  with  ill-concealed 
chagrin. 

"We  hardly  had  a  chance  to  get  so  far  as  that," 
Mary  said  quietly,  her  smiling  face  touched  with  a 
spark  of  daring,  "but  we  made  a  first-rate  beginning." 

Her  hearers  wore  very  different  expressions  as 
they  turned  to  resume  their  walk. 

"Mutual  helpfulness  is  said  to  be  a  good  founda- 
tion," Mr.  Chandler  said  easily,  as  he  replaced  his 
cap.  There  was  something  very  like  gratitude  in 
his  face. 

Before  night  settled  down  the  "motion"  was  evi- 
dent to  others  beside  Miss  Newlin,  and  next  morning 
saw  a  scanty  attendance  at  the  long  tables  in  the 
saloon.  There  were  not  more  than  seventy  or  eighty 
first-cabin  passengers,  and  most  of  them  had  appar- 
ently not  yet  found  their  "sea  legs,"  or,  in  common 
parlance,  had  not  yet  settled  their  land  stomachs. 

Father  Neptune  is  a  tremendous  practical  joker, 
and  perhaps  no  one  suffered  more  from  his  pranks 
than  Estelle  Gill  when  she  learned  from  the  much- 
enduring  stewardess  that  Miss  Farnham  was  "as 
bright  as  a  lark;"  but  Miss  Newlin  was  ill  and  the 
maid  the  worst  off  of  all.  She  knew  from  Mr.  Chand- 
ler that  he  was  a  stranger  to  sea-sickness,  and  for 
that  day  and  the  two  or  three  that  intervened  before 
she  could  drag  herself  on  deck,  the  greenish  yellow 
tone  of  her  complexion  was  not  all  due  to  that  cause. 
When  she  did  make  her  exit  she  was  wise  enough  to 
cover  her  face  with  a  heavy  veil.  Mary,  who  had 
busied  herself  with  Miss  Newlin  and  paid  a  visit 
to  the  forlorn  Rachel,  was  very  late  at  breakfast. 


332  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

As  she  crossed  the  companion-way  to  the  saloon, 
Mr.  Chandler  met  her,  rug  on  arm,  on  his  way  to  the 
deck.  At  sight  of  her,  the  somewhat  haughty  repose 
of  his  face  brightened  marvelously. 

"Ah,  so  you  are  not  with  the  majority,  after  all!" 
he  said,  coming  quickly  toward  her.  He  had  no  idea 
how  significant  that  "after  all"  was. 

"I'm  very  late,"  she  said,  innocently  reading  it 
aright.  "  I  was  looking  after  some  of  the  '  majority.'  ' 

An  hour  later,  driven  from  her  post  of  nurse  into 
the  open  air  by  Miss  Newlin's  command,  she  en- 
sconced herself  in  the  sheltered  corner  and,  carefully 
mummified  by  the  zealous  deck-steward,  opened  her 
book.  Canvas  was  drawn  over  the  rail  as  a  pro- 
tection from  the  flying  spray  and  her  view  of  the  ocean 
was  obscured  except  when  the  long,  rolling  swells 
brought  her  side  down.  She  tried  to  bury  herself 
in  the  time-honored  novel  in  her  hands,  and  at  last 
succeeded,  though  her  thoughts  did  occasionally 
wander  to  surmise  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  Mr. 
Chandler's  chair.  Her  native  frankness  made  her  un- 
ashamed of  the  wish  to  know. 

Suddenly  he  appeared  before  her  around  the  bulk- 
head. He  glanced  down  at  her  book.  "I  am  inter- 
rupting something  very  interesting,  I  am  afraid." 

"No,  I  am  glad  to  be  interrupted."  She  turned  the 
title  toward  him. 

"  'Vanity  Fair!'  "  with  a  bright,  half -amused  smile. 
"Are  you  fond  of  Thackeray?" 

He  asked  the  question  absently,  his  eyes  more 
alive  to  her  face  than  to  her  answer.  A  curt  "No!" 
waked  him  to  interest.  "I'm  not  reading  this  because 


ENCOUNTER  THAT  WAS  NOT  CHANCE  333 

I  like  it,  but  because  I  ought  to  like  it.  That  seems 
to  you  bad  taste,  doesn't  it?" 

"Rather,"  he  said  smiling  again.  "Thackeray  is 
a  delight  to  me;  but  perhaps  I  understand  your 
reasons.  He  is  too  much  of  a  sceptic  for  you.  You 
like  to  think  better  of  human  nature  than  he  lets 
you?" 

"Yes,"  Mary  answered,  surprised  that  a  stranger 
should  read  her  so  well.  "Because  most  human 
nature  is  better.  I  would  like  to  have  introduced 
Mr.  Thackeray  to  some  good  honest  Americans,  and 
especially  some  American  women.  I've  just  been 
reading  where  little  Georgie  leaves  his  mother,  with- 
out a  pang,  to  go  to  his  horrid  old  grandfather  and 
make  a  splurge." 

"And  you  think  that  is  unnatural?" 

"Perhaps  not,  if  a  boy  had  that  kind  of  mother. 
She  wasn't  capable  of  doing  anything  but  adore  him 
and  throw  herself  under  his  feet.  She  was  deadly 
uninteresting,  and  I  should  think  he  might  have  liked 
a  change." 

Her  hearer's  face  was  calculated  to  draw  her  out 
as  he  leaned  easily  against  the  bulkhead  looking  down 
at  her. 

"You  hear  a  lot  of  talk  about  woman's  place  being 
in  the  home,  but  some  of  those  sweet,  domestic  women 
have  no  more  idea  how  to  interest  a  child  when  it 
begins  to  develop  a  mind  than  a  nice  old  motherly 
hen.  Motherliness,  to  me,  doesn't  mean  just  washing 
and  cuddling  and  singing  nursery  songs  and  hearing 
prayers;  but  it  means  keeping  in  touch  with  the  big 
interests  of  the  world,  and  with  your  children's  souls 


334  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

and  brains,  as  well  as  their  hearts.  Mr.  Thack- 
eray's 'angelical'  mothers  didn't  know  anything  about 
what  was  going  on  in  the  world.  They  had  no  per- 
spective." 

Mary's  face  was  aglow  with  earnestness;  her  eyes 
beautiful  with  a  sudden  memory.  Her  mind  had 
gone  back  to  her  father.  Her  hearer  turned  his  own 
eyes  away. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  she  said  gently,  recalled 
to  herself  by  the  sight  of  the  fire  she  had  kindled. 
He  hesitated  definitely,  and  then  said  simply,  "I 
should  like  to." 

"You'd  better  get  your  rug  first,"  was  her  practical 
suggestion.  A  warm  wave  of  color  swept  over  his 
face  as  he  went  away  without  a  word. 

The  deck-pacers  were  few  that  morning.  One  old 
man,  his  slouch  hat  tied  under  his  chin  with  a  silk 
handkerchief,  looked  hard  at  them  as  he  went  by, 
but  they  were  too  deep  in  conversation  even  to  notice 
him.  The  luncheon  bugle  roused  them  and  made 
Mary  say  contritely,  "Oh,  I  ought  to  have  gone  down 
long  ago.  I  am  worried  about  Miss  Newlin.  She 
had  a  horrid  attack  of  pain  in  her  chest  in  Paris,  and 
the  doctor  called  it  by  some  Latin  name  that  means 
neuralgia  of  the  heart,  I  think,  and  told  me  she  must 
be  very  careful,  and  that  it  was  important  she 
shouldn't  be  seasick.  He  gave  her  a  medicine  to 
prevent  it,  but  she  must  keep  perfectly  quiet.  It  is 
a  very  dangerous  disease."  She  was  unwinding  her 
rugs  with  the  help  of  the  solicitous  steward  and  did 
not  see  the  look  of  startled  intelligence  on  Mr.  Chand- 
ler's face  as  he  struggled  to  his  feet. 


ENCOUNTER  THAT  WAS  NOT  CHANCE  335 

"If  I  could  do  anything  to  help  you  at  any  time,  it 
would  be  a  great  pleasure,"  he  said  with  a  solemnity 
that  seemed  disproportionate  to  the  occasion. 

Miss  Newlin  welcomed  her  with  a  tender  smile 
that  covered  a  close  scrutiny.  "You  have  been 
enjoying  your  book  at  last?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  Mary  answered,  looking  frankly  in  her  face. 
"I  have  been  talking  to  Mr.  Chandler."  She  saw  a 
cloud  of  uncertainty  settle  over  Miss  Newlin's  strong 
features.  She  wished  they  were  not  so  white. 

"We  were  not  flirting,  Miss  Newlin,"  she  said, 
playfully,  seating  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  berth  and 
kissing  her  friend  on  both  cheeks  to  drive  away  the 
disapproval  she  read.  "If  you  want  to  know  what  we 
were  talking  about  most  of  the  time,  it  was  the 
Friends — Quakers.  His  grandparents  were  all  Friends, 
and  he  says  he  thinks  it  the  purest  and  noblest  religion 
of  all — or  that  it  would  have  been  if  they  hadn't 
cramped  it  by  a  lot  of  little  formalities.  He  said 
they  were  beginning  to  find  that  out."  She  was 
running  on  in  her  wish  to  disarm  Miss  Newlin's 
distrust,  but  she  did  not  quite  succeed. 

"You  must  run  and  get  your  lunch  now,"  was  all 
the  answer  she  got. 

"Those  very  handsome  eyes  know  how  to  take 
one's  measure  pretty  accurately,  it  seems,"  Miss 
Newlin  said  to  herself,  with  a  grim  smile.  "I  guaran- 
tee he  didn't  talk  religion  to  Miss  Gill!" 

She  lay  for  some  time  with  puckered  brows  that 
were  not  altogether  caused  by  perplexity  or  dissatis- 
faction. There  was  a  nasty,  growling  pain  in  her  left 
arm  and  shoulder.  She  knew  what  it  meant  and 


336  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

that  her  very  life  depended  on  extreme  caution. 
"A  violent  attack  of  vomiting  would  end  it  all,  I 
think,"  was  her  calm  comment.  "I  must  take  no 
chances."  A  note  was  brought  her  by  the  stewardess. 
She  asked  for  her  glasses  and  opened  it,  turning  at 
once  to  the  signature. 

"Old  Mr.  Marquand!"  she  exclaimed  aloud  in  a 
voice  of  pleased  surprise.  "I  shall  enjoy  seeing  him 
again  if  I  ever  get  on  deck." 

She  turned  the  note  again  and  commenced  it,  but 
in  a  moment  her  face  had  changed  darkly  and  she 
read  to  the  end  with  feverish  haste.  Then  she  closed 
her  eyes  and  lay  still,  while  a  dull  crimson  of  excite- 
ment gradually  spread  over  her  face. 

"Why,  Miss  Newlin,  how  flushed  you  look.  What 
is  the  matter?"  Mary's  voice  suddenly  asked  from 
the  doorway.  Miss  Newlin  grasped  the  letter  and 
crushed  it  in  her  fingers  as  though  to  hide  it,  before 
she  realized  the  futility  of  the  attempt.  Mary  was 
thoroughly  alarmed  at  her  appearance  and  at  once 
took  a  bottle  from  one  of  the  little  barricaded  shelves 
on  top  of  the  washstand  and  dropped  several  drops 
of  the  liquid  into  a  medicine  glass  which  she  hurriedly 
filled.  "Drink  this,"  she  said,  in  her  usual  positive 
fashion,  lifting  Miss  Newlin's  unresisting  head  on 
her  strong  young  arm.  The  imperious,  masterful 
woman  was  as  wax  in  the  hands  of  this  girl,  who  made 
the  sunshine  of  her  life. 

There  was  absolute  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  while 
Mary  passed  her  cool  hand  across  the  flushed  forehead 
and  cheeks.  The  effect  of  the  drops  was  almost 
instantaneous.  The  color  receded. 


ENCOUNTER  THAT  WAS  NOT  CHANCE  337 

"Read  this,  dear,"  Miss  Newlin  said,  smoothing  out 
the  letter  again  and  handing  it  to  her  anxious  nurse. 

She  watched  Mary's  face  narrowly  while  the  long 
lashes  drooped  and  rose  again  at  a  turned  page. 

"Old  busybody!"  was  the  first  vexed  exclamation. 
"  I  suppose  he  meant  it  all  right  though."  She  paused 
a  moment  and  lifted  her  eyes  quietly  to  Miss  Newlin's. 
"I  knew  all  that  before." 

"And  you  never  told  me!" 

"I  never  thought  of  meeting  him;  certainly  not 
of  talking  to  him  as  I  have  this  morning.  It  was  not 
my  secret,  but  I  should  have  told  you  something  very 
soon.  I  really  never  ought  to  have  heard  what  I 
did."  Mary  proceeded  at  once  to  give  the  substance 
of  Ellen  Logan's  story.  Miss  Newlin  listened  with 
deep  interest,  but  the  anxiety  on  her  brow  did  not 
smooth  away. 

"Don't  let  him  sit  by  you  again  or  draw  you  into 
intimate  conversation.  A  nature  like  yours  makes  a 
famous  champion.  I  know  your  motives  are  above 
suspicion;  but,  dear  child,  you  are  not  a  fit  person  to 
undertake  the  conversion  or  consolation  of  that  sort 
of  sinner." 

"Miss  Newlin,  you  surely  couldn't  be  afraid  of  my 
losing  my  heart  to  him!     You  must  know  that — 
the  rest  of  the  sentence  was  buried  in  the  pillow  be- 
side Miss  Newlin's  cheek. 

"I  am  very  thankful,  Mary,"  she  said  in  a  low, 
uncertain  voice,  "and  I  will  trust  you,  dearest.  You 
are  not  a  foolish  child,  but  a  good  woman.  But  you 
are  very  young — and — 

Mary    readily    promised    moderation,    and    Miss 

22 


338  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

Newlin's  health  made  sufficient  excuse  for  her  absent- 
ing herself  from  the  deck  a  good  deal  without  seeming 
to  do  so  for  a  purpose.  She  also  paid  daily  calls  upon 
her  aunt. 

The  intimacy  so  begun  progressed  rapidly,  however, 
and  Mary  could  not  hope  to  escape  comment  and  never 
thought  of  trying.  On  the  contrary  she  took  pains 
to  treat  Mr.  Chandler  with  especial  friendliness  when 
the  decks  began  to  fill  up;  and  never  missed  long 
daily  promenades  with  him. 

But  he  read  the  difference  in  her  and  made  a  bold 
resolve. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
THE  DISEASE  "WITH  A  LATIN  NAME" 

A  PERFECT  day  above  and  a  quiet  sea  below 
had  emboldened  Miss  Newlin  to  risk  a  journey 
to  the  deck,  and  she  was  reclining  in  her  corner, 
fed  by  Mary  on  morsels  as  tempting  and  digestible 
as  the  bill-of-fare  afforded,  while  she  drew  deep  breaths 
of  the  fresh  sea  air. 

"No  one  knows  how  good  it  is  to  be  out  again," 
she  said,  with  a  deep  sigh  of  satisfaction,  as  she  chewed 
contentedly  on  a  bit  of  chicken.  "It  did  seem  as 
though  I  should  smother,  sometimes." 

"You  have  such  a  good  color!  And  your  eyes  are 
as  bright  as  usual,"  Mary  said,  looking  affectionately 
into  the  strong,  dark  face  encircled  by  a  "nubia" 
of  a  violent  bluish  pink  calculated  to  have  taken  the 
color  out  of  a  milkmaid's  cheeks.  (Milkmaids  always 
have  red  cheeks,  haven't  they?)  Miss  Newlin's 
love  of  gay  colors  was  as  inborn  as  her  lack  of  judgment 
in  their  use. 

"That's  enough.  Now  go  down  to  your  own  lunch. 
I  shall  be  as  comfortable  and  happy  as  can  be  hi  this 
heavenly  air."  Left  alone,  her  face  took  on  a  singu- 
larly uplifted  and  ennobled  gravity  as  her  eyes  swept 
the  blue,  calm  expanse  before  her.  A  voice  broke 
jarringly  upon  her  revery. 

(339) 


340  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"Miss  Newlin,  may  I  come  and  talk  to  you  for  a 
little?" 

The  tone  and  words  were  simple  enough,  but  there 
was  something  in  Mr.  Chandler's  face  that  made  her 
conscious  of  a  disagreeable  foreboding.  "Why  should 
he  want  to  talk  to  her,  an  old  woman  whom  he  had 
barely  met."  She  assented  with  a  coldness  that  did 
not  escape  him.  Very  little  did  escape  him.  He 
seated  himself  on  the  raised  foot-rest  of  Mary's 
chair,  almost  facing  Miss  Newlin.  She  noticed  the 
unconscious  tenderness  with  which  he  touched  the 
tumbled  heap  of  rugs  in  moving  them  aside.  It  was 
painfully  suggestive.  Suddenly  he  raised  a  face  of 
such  passionate  earnestness  that  his  listener  waited 
spellbound,  her  sombre  eyes  on  his.  She  had  not 
long  to  wait. 

"Do  you  believe  it  is  possible  for  one  to  love  with 
every  fiber  of  his  being  all  that  is  pure  and  good,  and 
yet  be  a  miserable  failure  in  even  the  common  task 
of  clean  and  honest  living?" 

He  had  taken  Miss  Newlin's  measure,  too.  Her 
whole  nature  responded  to  a  challenge  so  given.  There 
was  an  almost  unearthly  beauty  in  her  plain  face  as 
she  answered  with  an  intensity  equal  to  his  own. 

"We  must  believe  so  if  we  trust  St.  Paul's  witness: 
'For  I  delight  in  the  law  of  God,  after  the  inward 
man;  but  I  see  another  law  in  my  members,  warring 
against  the  law  of  my  mind  and  bringing  me  into 
captivity  to  the  law  of  sin  which  is  in  my  members.'  ' 
She  saw  his  face  quiver,  but  his  eyes  did  not  flinch. 

"Will  you  let  me  tell  you  something  about  myself?" 
he  asked  huskily. 


WILL  You  LET  ME  TELL  You  SOMETHING  ABOUT  MYSELF?" 
HE  ASKED. 


DISEASE  "WITH  A  LATIN  NAME"     341 

She  only  nodded;  her  absorbed  attention  answered 
for  her. 

"When  I  was  twenty-one,  I  fell  in  love — as  deeply 
as  I  was  capable  of  falling  in  love — with  a  married 
woman.  I  did  not  try  to  fight  it.  It  seemed  as  though 
the  very  strength  of  my  feeling  were  a  justification. 
I  was  not  vulgar.  I  was  as  innocent  as  a  girl  and 
intensely  religious  in  my  nature,  but  there  was  a  big 
force  there  beside.  She  was  a  few  years  older  than  I 
and  was  unhappy  in  her  marriage.  It  is  no  use  to 
go  through  it  all  again.  I  seemed  to  be  drawn  into 
sin  with  an  irresistible  force,  and  everything  con- 
spired to  pull  me  down."  His  lips  curled  with  tremu- 
lous sarcasm.  "No  doubt  every  sinner  has  said  the 
same  since  the  world  began." 

Miss  Newlin  made  no  answer.  Her  face  was  con- 
tracted with  a  sympathy  that  was  as  strong  as  pain. 

"I  knew  I  was  breaking  a  commandment,  but  the 
laws  of  nature  seemed  stronger  than  the  laws  of  Moses. 
Then  came  a  divorce  suit  in  which  the  husband's 
case  was  absolutely  perfect,  and  I  found  that  for 
weeks  we  had  been  spied  upon  with  consummate 
ingenuity.  Every  word  we  had  spoken,  every — I 
cannot  think  of  it  even  now.  Miss  Newlin,  Hester 
Prynne  only  wore  the  scarlet  letter  on  her  clothing, 
It  was  branded  into  my  very  soul  by  the  revelations 
of  that  trial.  Every  fact  was  distorted,  every  emotion 
vulgarized.  She  took  refuge  in  blank  denial.  I 
tried  to  keep  silence,  for  I  cared  nothing  for  'contempt 
of  court/  but  silence  was  as  damning  to  her  as  words 
would  have  been.  I  ended  by  backing  her  up." 
He  breathed  like  a  man  who  has  been  running.  "Of 


342  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

course,  the  lies  were  proved  against  us.  The  men  who 
had  shown  me  sympathy  at  first  grew  cold — all  but 
one,  an  old  man  who  died  not  long  after.  He  took 
me  aside  by  the  arm  and  said:  'Mr.  Chandler,  there 
is  the  making  of  a  man  in  you.  The  Lord  forgives 
such  perjury  as  that.'  I  never  forgot  the  words,  but 
the  fact  of  being  a  proven  liar  before  the  world  cut 
me  deeper  than  anything.  I  had  always  been  proud 
of  my  truth-telling.  A  lie  under  oath  was  no  different 
to  me  from  any  other  kind — I  had  the  Quaker  tradi- 
tions— but  what  I  suffered  for  those  I  told  in  that 
court,  killed  every  atom  of  the  love  I  had  for  her. 
Afterward  I  wrote,  offering  to  marry  her  as  soon  as 
or  wherever  the  laws  would  permit  it.  She  never 
answered  the  letter.  She  refused  to  see  me.  It  was 
the  kindest  thing  she  could  have  done;  but  it  made  me 
even  more  morose  and  full  of  gall  than  I  should  have 
been." 

Miss  Newlin's  face  was  expressive  of  physical  as 
well  as  mental  pain  and  her  hand  went  to  her  heart. 
Mr.  Chandler  looked  at  her  in  sudden  alarm. 

"I  ought  not  to  stir  you  up  with  this  wretched 
story,"  he  said  penitently.  "Can't  I  get  you  some- 
thing?" He  half  rose. 

"No,  no;  go  on." 

He  hesitated,  watching  her  face,  but  finally  com- 
plied. 

"If  I  might  have  confided  then  in  such  a  woman  as 
you,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  which  quickly  gave  place 
to  a  mocking  smile.  "I  expected  social  ostracism, 
but  I  found  myself  received  with  open  arms  by  women 
of  good  family  and  position,  of  what  is  called  the 


DISEASE  "WITH  A  LATIN  NAME"     343 

'gay  set/  and  inundated  with  invitations.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  real  kindliness  among  them,  but 
I  soon  discovered  that  it  was  not  only  the  sinner  they 
were  willing  to  pardon;  they  condoned  the  sin. 
Every  honest  instinct  in  me  was  outraged  by  the 
sort  of  tacit  complicity.  I  stayed  away  from  social 
functions  and  moped  in  the  bitterest  spirit  it  is  pos- 
sible for  a  man  to  feel.  I  was  only  a  boy  after  all. 
My  sister  was  an  angel  to  me,  but  I  knew  I  could  not 
make  her  understand.  I  let  her  think  I  was  suffering 
from  thwarted  love.  The  after-taste  of  dead  passion 
is  far  worse." 

Again  he  looked  in  Miss  Newlin's  flushed  and  frown- 
ing face  with  eager  solicitude.  "Forgive  me!"  he 
said  brokenly.  "  I  am  sure  you  know  why  I  am  telling 
you  what  I  never  told  anyone  before,  but  I  will  say 
no  more  now.  Let  me  stay  here  with  you  in  quiet 
till  your  maid  or  Miss  Farnham  comes  back." 

"If  you  will  get  a  little  water  and  drop  five  drops 
of  this  into  it,"  Miss  Newlin  said,  pressing  her  hand 
again  to  her  heart.  "I  ate  more  than  usual  and 
perhaps — 

"And  I  have  excited  you  right  on  top  of  it,"  he 
said,  crimsoning  with  mortification  and  anxiety,  as 
he  called  a  steward  and  sent  him  for  the  water. 
They  sat  hi  unbroken  silence  till  the  man  returned 
and  Mr.  Chandler  administered  the  stimulant — 
even  for  a  few  minutes  after.  Miss  Newlin  felt  they 
were  losing  precious  time.  The  luncheon-eaters  would 
soon  be  back. 

"I  am  all  right  now.  I  want  to  hear  the  rest 
before  we  are  interrupted,"  she  said  commandingly. 


344  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

He  hesitated  again,  but  saw  that  it  would  irritate 
her  to  refuse,  and  went  on  very  calmly. 

"After  a  year  or  two  of  sulking,  the  hot  blood  began 
to  work  in  me  again.  I  began  to  long  for  society. 
I  found  plenty  of  it  ready,  and  I  ended  by  accepting 
things  as  I  found  them.  For  five  years  I  stifled  the 
craving  for  a  higher  plane  of  living.  I  met  a  woman — 
a  divorced  woman  nearly  my  own  age, — witty, 
intellectual,  more  fascinating  than  most  beautiful 
women  (she  wasn't  even  passable),  and  we  soon 
became  intimate.  She  made  me  feel  that  we  were 
congenial  spirits  of  a  finer  clay  than  the  others.  I 
was  not  in  love  with  her,  but — "  his  face  expressed  a 
scornful  indulgence  for  his  old  self,  mixed  with  shame 
and  pain — "you  will  not  think  me  a  coxcomb,  Miss 
Newlin,  for  telling  you  that  she  was  in  love  with  me; 
so  much  so  that  she  disregarded  the  commonest 
prudence.  For  years  we  were  an  open  book  to  the 
whole  social  world.  Part  of  it  cut  us  dead,  but  we 
had  plenty  of  company.  Our  connection  soon  began 
to  gall  me  horribly — men  are  brutal  egotists  for  the 
most  part:  whatever  they  can  get  easily,  they  soon 
cease  to  care  for.  I  had  the  manhood  to  try  to  hide 
my  defection,  but  those  things  can't  be  hid  long.  I 
even  offered  to  marry  her,  but  she  was  too  clever. 
She  was  a  past-mistress  in  the  art  of  creating  fire 
out  of  ashes,  but  the  ashes  got  too  hopeless,  and  for 
years,  while  the  world  looked  on  us  as  happy  in  de- 
fiance of  its  laws,  we  were  as  wretched  as  we  could 
well  be.  At  last  she  put  an  end  to  it.  I  have  not  seen 
her  since.  I  gave  up  women's  society  altogether 
and  went  nowhere  but  on  sporting  expeditions  or  to 


DISEASE  "WITH  A  LATIN  NAME"     345 

athletic  contests.  I  traveled  a  great  deal.  I  was 
thoroughly  unhappy,  but  I  had  learned  to  accept 
things  as  I  found  them.  There  is  good  in  everyone, 
and  I  grew  confused  in  my  standards.  I  had  found 
fine  impulses  in  men  and  women  who  were  notori- 
ously fast,  and  I  had  a  contempt  for  prudes.  Many 
a  young  girl  has  given  me  side  glances  from  under  her 
mother's  wing  that  were  very  enlightening.  I  began 
to  think  the  world  was  made  up  of  people  who  frankly 
followed  their  natural  impulses  and  those  who  were 
hypocrites  enough  to  act  virtue  and  pretend  scorn." 
He  was  looking  moodily  down  on  his  interlaced  fingers; 
suddenly  he  raised  his  eyes  and  an  extraordinary 
change  passed  over  his  face. 

"One  day,  just  three  years  ago,  I  came  face  to  face 
with  a  girl — I  need  not  describe  her- — if  ever  eyes 
were  'windows  of  the  soul/  hers  are" — he  stopped 
a  moment  to  gain  composure.  "She  looked  straight 
at  me  and  I  recognized  the  unattainable  good.  The 
craving  for  it  had  always  haunted  a  corner  of  my 
stained  soul,  and  all  the  faith  of  my  boyhood  seemed 
to  come  back  in  a  flash  and  I  saw  the  life  I  was  living 
in  its  true  light.  It  was  a  wonderful  experience. 
It  made  a  different  man  of  me.  I  did  not  break  with 
all  my  old  acquaintances,  but  it  changed  my  whole 
attitude  toward  life.  I  was  never  what  is  called 
dissipated;  I  never  drank  much  nor  gambled.  Low 
resorts  had  never  had  any  temptation  for  me."- 
Another  pause.  Miss  Newlin  unaffectedly  dried  her 
eyes.  "I  saw  her  again  by  chance — very  seldom — . 
I  never  tried  to  meet  her.  I  knew  I  had  no  right  to 
her  acquaintance,  but  I  have  kept  in  touch  with  her 


346  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

and  known  all  that  happened  to  her  and  worshiped 
her  from  afar  as  a  good  Catholic  worships  the  Virgin 
Mary."  He  colored  warmly  as  he  pronounced  the 
name. 

"It  is  a  wonderful  story,"  Miss  Newlin  said  in  a 
low,  thrilled  voice;  "and  I  can  hardly  express  all  the 

sympathy  and  interest  I  feel;  but A  tremor  of 

pain  that  was  not  physical  crossed  her  eloquent  face. 

"I  know  what  you  will  say.  I  have  no  right  to 
touch  the  hem  of  her  skirt." 

"No,  I  do  not  say  that.  Who  are  we  to  refuse 
forgiveness  where  our  Lord  forgave.  I  acknowledge 
that  I  have  warned  her  against  you;  but  she  has  a 
very  strong  will,  with  all  her  sweetness;  and  I  have 
found  it  best  to  give  her  a  long  rein.  I  can  trust  her 
honor  absolutely,  but  she  is  a  creature  of  impulse 
where  her  deeper  feelings  are  stirred  and —  '  she 
stopped.  She  had  almost  said:  "and  you  are  peril- 
ously attractive." 

"I  told  you  I  had  not  meant  to  meet  her,"  Mr. 
Chandler  went  on.  "Indeed,  I  was  afraid  at  first  that 
something  in  me  that  seemed  to  draw  out  the  wrong 
side  of  women  would  draw  out  some  hidden  quality 
in  her  and  spoil  the  idea  of  her  I  had  in  my  mind. 
Afterward,  I  found  that  there  were  women,  of  fine 
quality,  who  seemed  willing  to  give  me  their  friend- 
ship, and  I  wanted  no  more.  I  was  resolved  never  to 
marry. 

"When  I  saw  Miss  Farnham  in  Paris — she  did  not 
see  me — I  recognized  that  she  was  a  woman  now  and 
a  woman  capable  of  deciding  for  herself.  It  came  to 
me  all  at  once  that  if  I  laid  bare  my  heart  to  her — • 


DISEASE  "WITH  A  LATIN  NAME"     347 

after  I  had  gained  her  confidence  by  quiet  acquaint- 
ance— she  might  be  one  of  the  women  who  can  for- 
give without  loss  of  self-respect  and  purity.  The 
temptation  was  so  great  that  I  made  all  my  plans; 
especially  as  chance  had  favored  me  by  introducing 
me  to  her  aunt  and  cousins.  It  was  the  cousin's 
likeness  to  her  that  made  me  seek  the  introduction 
in  the  first  place,  feeling  sure  there  must  be  a  blood 
tie.  It  didn't  take  long  to  discover  that  there  was 
no  other  kind.  The  soul  that  looks  out  of  Miss  Gill's 
windows  is  of  a  very  different  sort." 

At  that  moment  they  were  favored  by  a  good 
chance  for  comparison,  for  the  two  girls  emerged 
from  the  companionway  together,  Estelle  smiling 
sweetly  and  falsely  under  the  raised  veil.  She  had 
kept  her  family  at  the  luncheon  table  as  long  as 
possible,  in  the  hope  of  Mr.  Chandler's  appearing, 
little  dreaming  that  by  so  doing  she  was  playing 
straight  into  his  hand.  Mary's  expression  was  of 
unmistakably  pleased  surprise  when  she  saw  the  two 
together,  evidently  in  interested  conversation;  not 
so  Estelle 's,  although  she  made  a  very  good  attempt 
at  a  pleasant  smile,  and  there  were  solid  reasons  why 
her  soft  pink  color  did  not  change. 

"Mary,  dear,  Mr.  Chandler  has  been  keeping  me 
company  and  entertaining  me  so  well  that  I  hope 
he  will  be  willing  to  tell  me  more  soon.  We  old  maids 
never  get  too  far  along  to  enjoy  attention  from  inter- 
esting men." 

Mary  was  too  much  astonished  even  to  be  pleased. 
She  turned  to  Mr.  Chandler  with  unconscious  inquiry 
in  her  face,  but  he  only  smiled.  His  heightened  color 


348  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

might  easily  have  come  from  gratification  at  the 

compliment  paid  him. 

******* 

One  calm,  blue  day  followed  another,  till  there 
were  but  two  left  of  that  memorable  voyage. 

Miss  Newlin  had  graced  the  deck  from  morning  till 
night,  though  the  "nubia"  had  at  last  to  be  discarded 
because  of  the  extreme  mildness  of  the  weather.  For 
more  than  selfish  reasons  she  blessed  the  quiet  sea. 
On  deck  she  could  take  the  helm  of  affairs  and  disarm 
offensive  criticism  of  Mary  by  her  apparent  sanction 
of  the  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Chandler,  who  was  far 
too  politic  to  follow  the  bent  of  his  inclinations,  and 
to  all  outward  appearance  divided  his  attentions 
equally  between  the  two  girls  and  between  the  mother 
and  chaperon.  Miss  Newlin's  anxiety  was  bad  for 
that  disease  "with  a  Latin  name,"  and  she  was  forced 
to  have  frequent  recourse  to  heart  stimulants,  though 
there  were  no  more  exciting  confidences.  She  had 
told  Mr.  Chandler  that  even  if  she  wished  it,  she  had 
no  power  to  forbid  Mary's  listening  to  him.  "But 
her  guardian  has;  you  must  go  to  him,"  she  added, 
with  a  fresh  twinge  of  the  ever-present  pain  that  the 
thought  of  such  a  contingency  brought  her.  Mary's 
confession  had  been  balm  to  her  troubled  spirit,  but 
the  doubt  would  rise  when  she  saw  Mr.  Chandler 
with  her,  whether  loyalty  to  John  might  not  be 
weakened  in  spite  of  herself.  "If  I  were  a  girl  and  he 
looked  at  me  as  he  does  at  her,  I  wonder  whether  I 
could  make  a  sane  choice,"  she  said  to  herself,  com- 
paring the  handsome,  clean-cut  features  before  her 
with  John's  large  rough-hewn  ones.  "If  he  were  only 


DISEASE  "WITH  A  LATIN  NAME"     349 

here,  his  influence  would  be  strong  enough,  I  feel  sure 

but ."  Why  had  fate  decreed  that  the  love  of  so 

many  men  should  be  showered  upon  one  innocent 
woman,  who  could  satisfy  but  one?  She  recalled 
Edward  Logan's  parting  last  year  and  Jack  Wurts' 
long  journey  to  try  his  fate  a  second  time. 

"I  seem  to  see  Mr.  Brown's  impatience  as  we  get 
slowly  nearer,  Mary.  Only  two  more  days  now." 
She  watched  Mary's  face  covertly  and  was  reassured 
to  see  it  quiver  and  flush,  but — "perilously  attractive" 
had  not  been  too  strong  a  word  for  John's  present  rival. 

"I  believe  I  love  him  myself,"  was  Miss  Newlin's 
grudging  admission,  "and  it  hurts  me  to  think  of  the 
pain  that  must  come  to  one  or  the  other." 

"Only  one  day  now,"  she  said  next  morning;  "but 
I  do  wish  this  storm  could  have  waited.  I'm  afraid 
the  bromide  isn't  going  to  have  enough  effect." 

A  night  of  thunder-storms  had  again  made  a  very 
rough  sea,  and  Miss  Newlin's  fears  were  not  ground- 
less. An  hour  later,  a  fit  of  nausea  was  followed  by 
an  attack  of  pain  that  frightened  Mary  and  the  faith- 
ful Rachel  beyond  power  of  concealment. 

"I  am  easier  now,"  Miss  Newlin  said,  trying  to 
smile  as  she  looked  with  dull  eyes  into  Mary's  tear- 
filled  ones.  "My  dear  little  girl,  your  life  has  been 
very  full  of  anxiety.  It  is  the  penalty  of  loving." 
She  closed  her  eyes.  "It  will  soon  be  over  now  and 
port  will  be  more  welcome  than  ever  before." 

A  few  minutes  later  there  was  a  quick  sobbing 
breath,  a  short,  violent  struggle,  as  with  a  throttling 
enemy,  and  she  had  entered  "the  haven  where  we 
all  would  be." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

"PERILOUSLY  ATTRACTIVE" 

WHEN  in  the  years  to  come  the  waking 
nightmare  of  that  home-coming  should 
recur  to  Mary's  mind,  its  every  incident 
must  stand  in  the  light  of  one  all-pervading  personal- 
ity. It  was  Mr.  Chandler  who  arranged  everything, 
who  reassured  her  when  no  waiting  figure  was  to  be 
seen  towering  above  the  crowd  as  they  drew  up  to 
the  dock  and  who  went  at  once  in  search  of  news. 
Finding  the  Brown's  and  Raymond's  houses  closed, 
and  no  George  at  the  Art  Club,  he  himself  accompanied 
the  mortal  remains  of  Miss  Newlin  to  her  brother's 
home  in  Delaware,  and  the  mute  plea  of  his  expressive 
eyes  induced  Mary  to  accept  her  aunt's  invitation 
to  go  with  them  to  the  Aldine  Hotel  instead  of  going 
at  once  to  Catharine.  She  told  herself  with  rare 
want  of  candor  that  her  willingness  to  fall  in  with  this 
plan  was  owing  to  the  greater  accessibility  of  the  city 
in  her  effort  to  get  word  of  John,  and  the  reason  was 
plausible  enough  to  hoodwink  even  so  straightforward 
a  conscience  as  hers. 

Fate  had  been  too  strong  for  Mr.  Chandler  and  he 
had  abandoned  all  pretense  of  neutrality  in  his  hom- 
age; but  he  knew,  and  he  managed  to  let  Mary  know, 
that  it  would  not  do  for  him  to  go  out  to  Fernwood 

(350) 


"PERILOUSLY  ATTRACTIVE"          351 

as  he  might  to  a  hotel.  He  was  willing  for  the  present 
to  let  his  attentions  seem  (to  Mary  herself)  no  more 
than  were  justified  by  the  urgency  of  her  need.  Yet, 
with  all  her  grief  for  Miss  Newlin  and  anxiety  about 
John,  she  could  not  misunderstand.  She  was  accept- 
ing a  great  deal  from  a  stranger,  but  he  had  become  in 
that  short  time  almost  an  intimate  friend,  and  to  warn 
him  off  when  he  had  given  her  no  "absolute  proof" 
of  more  than  friendly  feeling  would  have  been,  she 
argued,  both  ungrateful  and  ridiculous. 

Her  heavy  heart  grew  heavier  with  each  hour  and 
she  dimly  knew  that  in  part  of  that  dull  pain  neither 
John  nor  Miss  Newlin  had  any  share.  In  the  quiet 
of  her  own  room  she  took  out  the  worn,  blue  leather 
case,  her  constant  companion,  and  gazed  through 
blinding  tears  into  the  beloved  face.  She  had  told 
Miss  Newlin  the  simple  truth.  Her  heart  was  so 
full  of  this  one  deep  feeling,  there  could  be,  she  felt 
sure,  no  chance  for  another  to  come  between.  Yet 
she  pressed  her  face  against  John's  pictured  one, 
as  though  this  firm  anchor  of  actual  contact  could 
keep  her  from  drifting  out  on  some  unknown  sea. 

Mrs.  Gill,  like  a  true  mother,  was  so  sure  of  her  own 
daughter's  greater  beauty  and  sprightliness  and  style 
that  she  did  not  even  look  on  pale,  dispirited  Mary 
as  a  dangerous  rival,  except  for  the  knowledge  that 
there  is  attraction  to  a  strong  man  in  a  woman's 
dependence  upon  him.  Mary  was  calm  enough  and 
executive  enough  in  all  her  trouble  to  have  set  on  foot 
all  the  necessary  agencies  with  regard  to  Miss  Newlin 
and  to  finding  John;  but  it  was  pleasant  to  lean  on  a 
congenial  strength.  Miss  Gill  had  much  clearer 


352  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

vision  than  her  mother  and  recognized  the  true  state 
of  the  case  with  a  concentrated  jealousy  capable  of 
all  that  Mary  had  ever  accredited  her  with  and  more 
than  Mary's  pure  mind  was  able  to  conceive  of. 

One  consideration — the  fact  that  it  might  be  com- 
promising to  her  to  be  seen  in  such  relations  to  a  man 
whose  past  record  was  well-known  in  his  own  city — 
Mary  put  from  her  with  a  scorn  as  noble  as  it  was 
imprudent.  Her  attitude  was  the  very  opposite  of 
Mrs.  Gill's  tolerance,  which  rested  entirely  on  the 
gentleman's  social  standing — his  birthright,  and  his 
evidently  easy  circumstances.  She  had  already  found 
out  that  he  was  rich. 

Before  that  first  nightfall  on  land,  Mr.  Chandler, 
following  Mary's  suggestions,  had  succeeded  in  learn- 
ing from  a  neighboring  grocer  that  Mr.  Brown  had 
gone  away  more  than  a  week  ago — somewhere  in  the 
far  west,  he  thought — and  that  the  servants  had  only 
closed  the  house  a  few  days  before. 

Mary  sent  a  telegram  to  Hannah  Patterson  at 
Lebanon  on  the  chance  of  finding  her  there,  and 
another  to  George  Raymond,  whose  whereabouts 
was  quickly  discovered  to  be  in  the  Pocono  Moun- 
tains— only  a  few  hours  away.  There  was  no  reply 
that  night.  "There  would  probably  be  some  delay, 
as  local  offices  were  apt  to  close  early  in  out-of-the-way 
places." 

Toward  noon  next  day,  came  a  message  from  her 
old  friend  Hannah,  so  confused  through  excess  of 
feeling  as  to  be  almost  unintelligible,  but  holding  one 
clear  fact:  John  had  gone  to  British  Columbia  on 
business.  Still  no  word  from  George,  but  as  she  came 


"PERILOUSLY  ATTRACTIVE"          353 

out  of  the  Aldine  restaurant  with  her  aunt,  after  a 
vain  attempt  to  eat  her  lunch,  a  hurrying  bell-boy 
approached  her  and  handed  her  a  card.  One  glance 
at  it  sent  the  color  surging  over  her  white  face. 
"Where  is  the  gentleman?"  she  said  quietly.  A 
minute  later  she  was  standing  with  both  her  hands  in 
George  Raymond's  strong  clasp,  while  his  eager  eyes 
took  in  all  the  changes  of  the  eighteen  months  since 
he  had  seen  her,  and  especially  the  sad  changes  of 
these  last  days. 

His  questions  must  be  answered  first,  and  in  the 
process,  her  aunt's  name  came  out  and  Mr.  Chandler's. 
She  saw  the  pained  surprise  on  his  face  at  hearing 
of  her  present  connection  with  the  Gills,  of  whose 
existence  he  had  heard  from  John,  and  the  startled 
gravity  with  which  he  received  the  first  mention  of 
Mr.  Chandler's  name. 

Then  came  his  turn,  and  he  explained  the  nature 
of  the  business  that  had  taken  John  to  that  remote, 
uninhabited  woodland  district,  and  the  extra  pre- 
cautions he  had  taken  to  have  all  letters  or  telegrams 
forwarded.  "He  has  probably  found  much  greater 
difficulties  than  he  thought,"  George  said  seriously. 
"Your  cablegram  telling  of  your  sudden  start  home 
must  have  reached  here  a  day  or  two  after  he  left 
and  has  somehow  missed  him.  Of  course,  he  was  not 
expecting  a  cable,  but  he  would  be  sure  to  inquire 
for  mail  at  each  stop.  He  was  going  abroad  as  soon 
as  all  this  necessary  business  of  his  mother's  estate 
was  settled,  and  went  west  at  once  on  that  account. 
You  know  Mrs.  Brown's  father  was  a  Canadian  and 
he  owned  land  in  two  or  three  places  that  he  took  for 

23 


354  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

speculation.  He  came  to  Philadelphia  to  study 
medicine  and  fell  in  love  and  settled  here.  Mrs. 
Brown's  will  left  all  that  real  estate,  or  the  proceeds 
of  it,  to  Episcopal  Missions,  and  it  means  a  great  deal 
of  work  for  John.  There  is  some  of  it  north  of  Mon- 
treal or  Quebec.  I  sent  a  telegram  this  morning  to 
New  Westminster,  the  nearest  telegraph  station, 
telling  of  Miss  Newlin's  death  and  your  home-coming, 
and  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  you."  He  wrote  down 
the  address  and  gave  it  to  her. 

"I  don't  know  just  how  far  from  the  town  he  may 
be,  but  I  imagine  some  distance,  and  where  he  is  there 
are  no  roads.  Mail  would  have  to  be  taken  by  woods- 
men on  foot." 

Mary  explained  that  her  aunt  had  seemed  pleased 
to  have  her  with  them,  but  that  she  meant  to  go  to 
Catharine  the  following  week,  when  the  Gills  would 
probably  start  for  their  home  near  Cleveland.  She 
spoke  of  Mr.  Chandler's  kindness,  not  without  a  cer- 
tain self-consciousness,  both  by  reason  of  her  own 
present  relation  to  him  and  because  of  that  connection 
with  Miss  Hutchinson,  and  the  memory  of  George's 
face  at  the  cricket  match  years  ago,  when  he  had  seen 
them  together. 

"I  should  be  glad  to  go  down  with  you,"  George 
said  warmly,  when  she  told  him  the  day  and  hour  of 
Miss  Newlin's  funeral.  He  saw  her  hesitate  and  color, 
then  she  said  simply,  "Mr.  Chandler  has  planned  to 
go  with  me." 

"But  I  may  go  too,  mayn't  I?" 

She  saw  a  quiet  purpose  in  his  face,  and  understood. 
She  was  not  offended,  for  she  knew  George's  natural 


"PERILOUSLY  ATTRACTIVE"          355 

modesty  and  that  his  hardihood  now  was  for  John's 
sake,  but  it  stirred  up  that  persistent  pain.  The 
cross-roads  that  she  dreaded  were  coming  near. 
George's  manner  was  perfect  toward  the  man  whom 
he  yet  deliberately  relegated  to  a  position  of  super- 
numerary, on  that  sad  journey.  His  jaws  were 
squarely  set  as  he  watched  Mary's  treatment  of  this 
new  acquaintance. 

"I  believe  no  woman  is  able  to  resist  him,"  he  said 
bitterly  to  himself,  thinking  of  John  and  his  patient 
waiting,  and  of  his  own  failure  where  he  had  seen  Mr. 
Chandler  steadily  gaining  ground. 

The  following  day  he  came  to  Mary  with  a  very 
bright  face  and  a  yellow  envelope  in  his  hand: 

"Starting  home  at  once;  I  know  you  will  do  all  you  can  for 
Mary.  My  love  and  sympathy  to  her." 

A  very  ordinary  little  message,  but  enough  for  Mary. 
Yet  she  had  not  seen  John  closeted  half  the  night  in 
a  logging  cabin  with  two  strange  specimens  of  human- 
ity, who  regarded  him  as  coming  down  with  a  fever. 
That  it  seemed  only  to  sharpen  his  wits  made  them 
none  the  less  anxious,  and  it  was  with  genuine  solici- 
tude that  they  saw  him  start  before  daylight  on  the 
long  return  tramp,  with  the  guide  who  had  brought 
in  the  message.  Only  two  things,  they  argued,  could 
excite  a  man  like  that  (yet  he  was  "damned  cool- 
headed,  too").  It  wasn't  likely  that  he  had  done 
murder  and  the  law  was  on  his  tracks;  he  didn't 
seem  just  like  that;  yet  that  might  cause  the  red  and 
white  trembling  fit  that  had  come  on  him  when  he  got 
that  telegram !  The  other  alternative  seemed  almost 


356  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

equally  improbable.  They  had  seen  men  take  on  so 
when  another  fellow  had  gone  off  with  their  girl, 
but  this  one  was  too  old  and  settled.  Why,  he  might 
be  forty !  And  forty  in  their  social  code  was  the  begin- 
ning of  old  age,  and  should  be  dead  to  passion. 

"John  won't  lose  any  time,"  George  said  emphatic- 
ally, "but  the  soonest  he  can  possibly  get  here  will  be 
a  week.  This  message  is  sent  from  a  place  that  isn't 
in  the  Art  Club  gazetteer,  but  he  would  come  by  the 
Canadian  Pacific,  I  should  think;  unless  he  could 
get  a  faster  train  by  going  to  Seattle." 

George  had  been  presented  to  the  Gill  family  and 
had  been  agreeably  surprised,  especially  with  the 
mother.  It  was  ungrateful  of  him  to  feel  cool  toward 
Estelle,  for  her  handsome  eyes  had  conveyed  unmis- 
takable messages  of  encouragement  and  she  had  hoped 
to  arouse  Mr.  Chandler's  jealousy  by  flirting  with  this 
"awfully"  good-looking  man.  Mr.  Chandler's  defec- 
tion rankled  in  the  inmost  depths  of  all  the  heart  she 
had,  and  "hell  has  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned." 
It  was  no  mere  blow  to  her  self-love  and  vanity. 
The  passionate  pain  that  filled  her  with  gall  and  fire 
was  the  most  intense  emotion  her  cold  nature  had  ever 
known. 

The  weather,  which  had  been  unusually  cool  after 
those  heavy  electric  storms,  was  beginning  to  warm  up 
uncomfortably,  and  the  city  seemed  a  very  undesir- 
able loitering  place;  yet  wild  horses  could  not  have 
dragged  Estelle  from  the  spot  yet. 

"Couldn't  we  go  somewhere  for  the  day  where  it 
is  cool?"  she  had  suggested  at  breakfast  that  morn- 
ing. Mary  had  begged  them  to  leave  her  out  of  the 


"PERILOUSLY  ATTRACTIVE"          357 

question.  She  would  not  move  from  the  hotel  while 
there  was  a  chance  of  an  answer  to  George's  telegram. 
Both  girls  were  inclined  to  sulk  over  this  calmly 
expressed  decision. 

"It's  abominably  selfish  when  she  knows  we 
wouldn't  go  and  leave  her,"  was  Estelle's  biting  com- 
ment, delivered  hardly  out  of  earshot  of  Mary,  who, 
though  she  did  not  catch  the  muttered  words,  knew 
very  well  what  was  their  temper.  She  begged  her 
aunt  to  leave  her  at  home  alone;  but  when  Mrs.  Gill 
was  on  the  point  of  yielding,  rather  than  disappoint 
her  darlings,  an  emphatic  refusal  from  Estelle  settled 
the  matter.  That  young  woman  had  no  notion  of 
leaving  her  rival  a  fair  field  and  she  had  a  conviction 
that  Mary's  presence  would  be  needed  to  insure  some- 
one else's.  She  sauntered  into  the  room  just  as  George 
was  calculating  John's  chances  of  speed,  and  offered 
congratulations  in  a  voice  as  hearty  and  sincere  as 
Bernhardt  herself  could  have  managed. 

"Now,  Mary,  you  won't  mind  going  out  of  town," 
she  said  sweetly.  "I  have  been  talking  to  the  clerk, 
and  he  says  Valley  Forge  is  just  as  pretty  as  it  can  be 
and  awfully  interesting,  and  none  of  us  have  been 
there.  Mr.  Raymond,  couldn't  you  go  out  there  with 
us  this  afternoon?  We  can  take  our  supper  with  us 
and  have  a  picnic,  for  it's  bright  moonlight  to  come 
home." 

George  glanced  at  Mary's  unresponsive  face  and 
hesitated  a  moment. 

"My  cousin  from  Bryn  Mawr  is  here  calling  now, 
and  I  know  he'd  go,  and  I'm  sure  Mr.  Chandler  would. 
We  can  send  a  note  to  the  Rittenhouse  Club  at  once." 


358  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

George's  short-lived  hesitation  was  over.  "I 
should  be  very  glad  to  go,"  he  said,  smiling,  "and  it 
is  a  perfectly  beautiful  country  and  full  of  interest. 
You've  been  out  there,  haven't  you,  Mary?" 

"No,"  Mary  said,  without  enthusiasm.  John  had 
meant  to  take  her  there  some  time.  This  picnic  was 
a  very  different  thing,  and  the  idea  of  anything 
approaching  a  merry-making  was  almost  as  distaste- 
ful to  her  as  her  cousin's  share  in  it. 

"Why  don't  I  go  to  Catharine  to-day?"  she  asked, 
the  mournful  eyes  gazing  back  into  hers  from  the  look- 
ing-glass. "Now  that  Mr.  Raymond  is  going,  I 
couldn't" — she  checked  herself  and  those  honest 
eyes  in  the  glass  filled  with  slow  tears — "Because  I 
want  to  be  with  Mr.  Chandler" — they  said  bravely — 
"and  Mr.  Raymond  knows  it." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

A  MODERN  SIEGE  AT  VALLEY  FORGE 

MRS.  GILL  was  suffering  from  a  severe  head- 
ache, and  before  the  starting  hour,  three 
o'clock,  was  obliged  to  go  to  bed  instead  of 
preparing  for  the  excursion.  Kitty  declared  her 
intention  of  staying  with  her  mother,  for  she  was  both 
affectionate  and  unselfish  (a  complete  tool  in  the  hands 
of  her  cleverer  sister) ;  but  Estelle  would  not  permit 
it,  and  Kitty  accompanied  her  and  Mary  downstairs 
in  a  subdued  frame  of  mind.  The  only  gay  member  of 
the  trio  was  Estelle,  who  had  planned  a  campaign 
in  which  she  cleverly  foresaw  George  Raymond's 
hearty  co-operation.  She  had  found  it  up-hill  work 
using  George  as  a  stimulus  to  Mr.  Chandler's  jealousy 
of  herself;  she  would  use  him  as  a  barrier  between  the 
other  two,  and  with  her  sister  to  engage  the  "stupid" 
cousin,  when  it  came  to  pairing  (and  she  would  see 
that  it  did  come  to  pairing),  it  would  be  strange 
indeed  if  George  did  not  relieve  her  of  all  care  of  Mary. 
The  three  men  were  in  friendly  conversation  in  the 
big  hotel  lobby.  George  was  acknowledging  to  him- 
self that  he  would  have  liked  Mr.  Chandler  very  much 
if  he  had  not  been  such  a  "fire-brand."  When  he 
saw  the  look  on  the  thoroughbred  face  as  it  turned  to 
greet  Mary,  and  the  quick  response  in  hers,  he  felt 

(359) 


360  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

inclined  to  wish  himself  a  knight  of  those  romantic 
days  when  a  fair  one  might  be  spirited  away  and  held 
captive  for  good  ends  as  well  as  evil. 

"I  believe  I  might  keep  him  from  breaking  John's 
heart  first  and  hers  after,"  he  thought,  yet  without 
vindictiveness — rather  with  a  sad  wonder  whether  the 
man  really  knew  the  devil's  power  that  was  in  him. 
"He  doesn't  mean  her  any  harm  now,  that's  certain. 
He  looks  as  though  he  wanted  to  fall  down  and  wor- 
ship her!  If  any  woman  ever  could  have  power  to 
reform  a  man,  she  might!" — but  the  thought  of  John 
choked  him.  So  absorbed  was  he  in  his  somber 
musing  that  he  did  not  notice  a  messenger  till  the  boy 
stood  squarely  in  front  of  him,  touching  his  cap  and 
holding  out  a  telegram.  "You're  Mr.  Raymond, 
ain't  you?" 

George  admitted  his  identity  with  a  look  of  one 
suddenly  waked  from  sleep.  He  opened  the  envelope, 
read  the  few  words,  and  a  flush  of  annoyance — or  of 
something  deeper — rushed  over  his  face. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said,  turning  to  Mary 
instead  of  to  Estelle.  "My  mother  has  been  having 
trouble  with  a  tooth  and  Emma  says  she  is  coming 
down  to  the  dentist  this  afternoon.  They  arrive  at 
Broad  Street  at  6.11,  so  it  will  be  out  of  the  question 
for  me  to  go  with  you."  Mary  was  heartily  sorry 
and  looked  it.  Estelle's  conventional  expressions  of 
regret  were  but  a  faint  show  of  the  chagrin  that 
filled  her  soul. 

The  indecision  on  both  faces  made  George  hope, 
for  one  anxious  moment,  that  the  whole  expedition 
would  be  put  off  till  another  day,  since  they  were 


MODERN  SIEGE  AT  VALLEY  FORGE  361 

minus  a  chaperon;  but  his  unkind  wish  was  doomed 
to  disappointment.  Mary  stood  like  some  passive 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  fate,  and,  as  usual,  Estelle 
took  command  of  the  strangely  assorted  party. 

It  would  be  odd  if  she  could  not  play  her  cards 
successfully  once  they  were  away.  Anything  was 
better  than  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  and  evening  in 
the  hot  city !  She  never  gave  a  thought  to  her  mother. 
"  Well,  we  must  be  off  if  we're  going  to  catch  the  train," 
she  said,  decidedly,  and  George  saw  the  quick  flash 
in  one  pair  of  eyes. 

Mr.  Chandler  had  taken  the  precaution  of  tele- 
graphing for  an  open  coach  for  the  party,  and  the  jog- 
trot drive  in  the  late  afternoon  was  full  of  interest  and 
enjoyment.  He  constituted  himself  leader  and 
managed  to  hold  each  one  with  the  charm  of  his  per- 
sonality and  the  extent  of  his  information.  Mary 
was  bewitched  into  complete  enjoyment,  as  they 
listened  to  anecdotes  of  Washington's  army  and  that 
thrilling  winter,  while  they  sat  in  the  woods  over  their 
picnic  supper.  Tom  Gill  decided  that  his  cousins 
were  lucky  to  pick  up  a  man  like  Mr.  Chandler. 
"He's  the  best  fellow  I've  met  in  a  long  while,"  he 
said  to  Kitty  sotto  wee.  "But  he's  no  go  for  Estelle. 
He's  dead  stuck  on  Miss  Farnham."  Kitty  looked 
incredulous.  The  idea  that  he  was  more  than  kind 
to  Mary  in  her  trouble  had  not  occurred  to  her,  and 
she  thought  of  him  as  already  Estelle's  property. 

Estelle,  however,  was  wide  awake;  and  impartial 
as  Mr.  Chandler  might  try  to  make  his  attentions 
to-day,  she  saw  that  every  little  civility  to  Mary  was 
charged  with  an  electric  current  of  restrained  tender- 


362  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

ness  and  passion,  and  a  very  demon  of  pain  and  hate 
took  possession  of  her  heart. 

"Do  you  feel  energetic  enough  to  walk  up  to  the 
observatory  and  see  the  sunset  view?"  Mr.  Chandler 
asked  of  the  company  in  general,  though  his  eyes 
involuntarily  turned  to  Mary. 

"Oh,  dear,  no,  it's  too  hot,  and  we've  got  to  walk 
to  the  station,"  Miss  Gill  answered  tartly,  forgetting 
her  amiable  role  for  the  moment.  It  had  been  Mary's 
suggestion  to  send  the  coach  back  when  they  stopped 
for  supper  and  Estelle  had  not  dared  to  oppose  it. 
Her  abrupt  speech  now  made  Mr.  Chandler  color 
slightly. 

"I  am  sorry  we  didn't  keep  the  coach,"  he  said 
courteously. 

"  Oh,  not  for  me,"  Estelle's  temper  was  getting  away 
with  her.  She  had  a  naturally  good  complexion, 
and  it  had  taken  two  or  three  years  of  late  hours  and 
irregular  habits  to  reduce  the  healthful  bloom  which 
was  Kitty's  strongest  present  claim  to  good  looks. 
Of  late  her  rest  had  been  spoiled  by  cankering,  pas- 
sionate jealousy,  and  she  was  forced  to  hide  the  rav- 
ages by  every  art  in  her  power.  "Mary  looks  like 
a  ghost,"  Mrs.  Gill  had  remarked  that  morning. 
"If  it  wasn't  for  a  certain  something  about  her  she 
would  hardly  be  pretty  any  more." 

"She's  perfectly  washed  out,  and  her  eyes  are  as 
dull  as  fishes,"  was  Estelle's  cousinly  answer. 

"But  Mr.  Chandler  doesn't  seem  to  notice  her 
looks,"  she  added  to  herself.  "I  believe  he  likes  her 
all  the  better  with  circles  under  her  eyes  and  that  die- 
away  air." 


MODERN  SIEGE  AT  VALLEY  FORGE  363 

The  spiteful  pain  was  not  lessened  this  afternoon 
by  the  fact  that  she  had  been  incautious  enough  to 
trust  to  Madame  Elise's  recommendation  of  a  "water- 
proof" coloring  matter  for  the  cheeks,  and  that  she 
was  on  "pins  and  needles"  ever  since  a  covert  trial 
with  her  handkerchief  had  shown  her  her  danger. 
Then,  too,  she  saw  Mary's  pale  cheeks  and  heavy 
eyes  vanishing  before  the  interest  and  pleasure  that 
were  quickened  in  her.  There  was  no  lack  of  color 
or  life  in  her  face  as  she  shook  the  crumbs  from  her 
napkin  and  sprang  up.  "I  should  like  to  go  ever  so 
much!  Come  on,  Kitty.  It's  only  a  little  distance 
from  here."  Kitty,  who  always  followed  the  strongest 
lead,  was  preparing  to  get  on  her  feet,  when  a  sly  pull 
at  her  gown  and  a  low  "cut  it,  Kit,"  from  her  cousin 
changed  her  purpose.  Estelle  saw  and  it  added  fuel 
to  her  fire,  but  she  said  in  a  quiet,  unconcerned  voice, 
"you  know  the  train  goes  at  7.28  and  there  isn't 
another  from  this  benighted  place.  You'll  have  to 
hurry  pretty  hard  to  get  back.  I  think  we'll  stroll 
on  down  and  take  our^time." 

"I  know  a  shorter  cut  from  the  observatory,  by  the 
road  along  the  dam,"  Mr.  Chandler  said  with  equal 
calmness,  though  there  was  a  traitorous  shining  in 
his  eyes.  "We  will  go  back  that  way  and  join  you 
at  the  station." 

Mary  was  a  little  frightened  at  the  result  of  her 
own  impulse,  but  Mr.  Chandler  walked  quietly  by 
her  side,  making  only  trite  comments  on  scenery  and 
wood.  He  stopped  from  time  to  time  and  collected 
a  handful  of  tiny  roadside  greenery — there  were  no 
flowers.  Mary  grew  more  at  her  ease  as  he  called  her 


364  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

attention  to  the  spores  on  a  little  fern,  and  opened  a 
seed-pod  with  the  blade  of  his  penknife.  The  subtle 
charm  of  his  companionship  was  mixed  with  dull  pain, 
with  a  sense  of  impending  crisis.  She  was  very  silent. 

When  they  reached  the  observatory,  he  asked  if 
she  did  not  want  a  breathing  space  before  starting 
the  climb,  and  she  saw  that  he  was  rather  pale  than 
flushed  and  that  his  whole  face  was  changed,  as  with 
a  solemn  purpose.  She  only  shook  her  head  as  she 
gathered  her  light  skirt  about  her  with  one  hand. 
Mr.  Chandler  started  up  at  once,  leaving  her  to  follow. 
He  paused  at  the  landings,  and  she  felt  his  eyes  on  her 
face  as  he  waited  for  her  to  recover  her  breath,  but 
it  was  not  the  steep  climb  that  was  troubling  it. 
"Why  had  she  come?"  she  asked  herself.  "Partly 
to  spite  Estelle,  perhaps,  but  not  only  for  that." 
Now  she  wished  herself  away  and  yet — .  She  tried 
to  talk  as  they  came  out  on  the  uppermost  platform 
and  gazed  over  the  rich  panorama  of  harvested  fields 
and  midsummer  woods,  with  glimpses  of  the  winding 
river  and  the  white  lines  of  road  dividing  the  waving 
corn.  The  beauty  and  peace  of  it  all  under  the  level 
rays  of  the  fast  sinking  sun  made  her  attempt  at  small 
talk  fall  hushed.  She  yielded  to  an  irresistible  power 
and  stood  beside  him  without  a  word. 

"I  am  sorry  the  sun  is  going  to  be  too  late  for  us." 
It  was  he  who  finally  broke  the  silence. 

Mary  started  and  looked  at  him.  "How  long  will 
it  take  us  to  walk  to  the  station?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"I  am  not  sure.  I  should  think  not  more  than 
twenty  minutes.  He  drew  out  his  watch  and  uttered 
an  exclamation  as  he  saw  that  the  hands  already 


MODERN  SIEGE  AT  VALLEY  FORGE  365 

pointed  to  ten  minutes  past  seven,  but  Mary  said 
composedly,  "I  suppose  we  might  as  well  start.  We 
don't  want  to  rush,  and  Estelle  said  the  train  left 
at  7.48.  It  is  so  beautiful!"  with  a  long-drawn  sigh 
as  her  eyes  bade  farewell  to  the  loveliness  all  about 
her.  She  did  not  see  Mr.  Chandler's  lips  open  impul- 
sively and  close  again  and  a  vivid  flush  pass  over  his 
face.  He  had  not  misunderstood  the  train's  starting 
time,  but  he  yielded  to  a  sudden  strong  temptation 
and  said  nothing.  He  would  get  the  coach  again  and 
drive  to  Phcenixville  or  Paoli.  There  would  be  a 
moon.  He  tried  to  smother  the  secret  hope  that  the 
others  might  not  wait  for  them.  It  was  a  very  small 
hope,  but  intoxicating.  He  could  hardly  misconstrue 
Mary's  silence  or  studied  effort  at  talk  as  they  started 
down  the  steep  woodpath  to  the  spring  where  they  were 
to  join  the  road  by  the  long  pond  or  dam.  It  was  get- 
ting dark  here  and  seemed  darker  after  the  dazzling 
light  on  top  of  the  tower.  He  went  a  little  ahead, 
holding  back  an  obtrusive  branch  from  time  to  time, 
but  he  did  not  try  to  talk.  There  was  a  spell  upon 
them  both. 

Mary  suddenly  stumbled  and  fell  forward  and  he 
turned  and  caught  her.  Then,  even  in  the  dim  light 
he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  in  a  moment 
his  arms  were  round  her  and  he  had  kissed  her  pas- 
sionately on  averted  cheek  and  hair  and  where  the 
tantalizing  tiny  rings  escaped  to  nestle  against  her 
white  throat.  She  tried  to  loose  herself.  He  let  her 
go  at  once  and  she  sank  down  in  a  little  heap  on  the 
moss  and  stones  beside  the  path  and  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands. 


366  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  panting  and  hoarse.  "The 
temptation  was  great,  and — I  love  you.  I " 

"And  you  thought  I  would  not  mind."  The  low, 
shamed  voice  was  full  of  unmistakable  pain. 

"I  thought —  "  he  made  no  effort  to  help  her  up. 
"I  have  been  mad  enough  to  hope  lately  that  you  were 
growing  to  care  for  me  too — that  you  might  be  willing 
to  be  my  wife  some  day,  little  as  I  deserved  such  a 
happiness.  Was  I  altogether  wrong?  Don't  you  love 
me  at  all,  Mary?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said  vehemently,  "I  don't  love  you; 
I  mustn't  love  you !  I  love  John.  I  have  always  loved 
him.  Oh — "  with  a  sudden  sob — "it  isn't  possible 
to  love  two  men  at  once?" 

Mr.  Chandler's  set,  white  face  relaxed,  and  it  was 
not  strange  that  hope  revived  in  him.  He  thought 
he  understood. 

"Have  you  given  a  promise  of  some  sort  to  your 
guardian?" 

"No,  John  has  never  spoken  to  me  of  such  things — 
even  in  the  semi-darkness  he  saw  the  crimson  color 
flood  her  face.     She  made  an  attempt  to  rise  and  he 
gave  her  his  hand.    He  felt  hers  tremble. 

"Mr.  Chandler,"  she  said,  as  she  stood  beside  him 
in  the  narrow  path,  with  downcast  face  and  quivering 
lips.  "I  have  been  wrong  not  to  let  you  know  before 
this,  that — that  I  belonged  to  John;  that  I  want  to 
belong  to  him — but" — the  words  were  evidently  very 
hard  for  her — "I — I  wanted  you  near  me.  I  was 
afraid  you  would  go  away  and —  He  forced  himself 
to  take  no  advantage  of  the  reluctant  admission. 
"Oh,  I  think  I  shall  never  marry  anybody,  but  I  see 


MODERN  SIEGE  AT  VALLEY  FORGE  367 

now" — the  thrill  of  his  passionate  kisses  was  still  in 
her  veins — "it  is  best  for  you  to  go." 

Mr.  Chandler  should  be  forgiven  if  he  made  a  firm 
resolution  to  stay.  He  opened  his  lips  to  answer  her, 
but  a  shrill  sound  broke  the  twilight  stillness  and 
made  them  both  start.  It  was  the  whistle  of  the 
down  train. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
A  STRANGE  PROPOSAL 


**  "T  IT  THERE  is  she,  George?" 

^^         The   words   accompanied   the    warm, 
strong  handclasp  which  was  to  serve  for 
all  other  greeting. 

"At  Catharine's — but  John,  you  must  sit  down  five 
minutes.  There  are  some  things" — George  broke 
off  abruptly,  frightened  by  the  sudden  pallor  that 
replaced  the  eager  glow  on  his  friend's  face.  How 
could  he  ever  prepare  John  for  what  he  feared  was 
coming;  for  what  had  already  come! 

John  searched  his  face  with  eyes  that  tried  to  pene- 
trate his  very  soul.  "Is  something  wrong?"  he  asked 
in  a  level  voice,  putting  one  trembling  hand  on  the 
back  of  the  office  chair.  "Is  she  ill?" 

George  took  a  step  toward  him  and  stopped. 

"No,  no,  she  is  well;  but  don't  look  at  me  like 
that!  I  am  bungling  terribly.  I  hope  there  is  no 
harm  done  that  may  not  be  remedied;  but  it  is  a 
long  story  and  you  must  let  me  begin  at  the  beginning. 
Sit  down!"  The  same  feeling  that  prompted  that 
push  would  have  meant  his  arms  around  John's  neck 
had  they  been  girls.  For  one  moment  John's  face 
was  buried  in  his  hands;  then  he  raised  it.  "  Go  on," 
he  said  quietly. 

(368) 


A  STRANGE  PROPOSAL  369 

George  told  what  he  knew  of  Mary's  meeting  with 
her  aunt  and  Mr.  Chandler. 

"You  remember  old  Marquand,  don't  you?" 

John  nodded,  the  pain  in  his  face  was  touched  with 
amazement  at  the  digression. 

"Well,  he  came  to  see  me  yesterday  and  told  me 
what  I  want  to  tell  you.  He  crossed  on  the  steamer 
with  them  all,  and  he  said  it  was  very  rough  for  a  few 
days  at  starting  and  Mary  was  the  only  one  of  the 
whole  party  who  was  not  seasick,  and  that  Mr. 
Chandler  soon  singled  her  out  and  the  very  first 
morning  he  was  tete-a-tete  with  her  for  hours  in  a 
retired  part  of  the  deck.  Marquand  has  good  reason 
to  know  something  of  Chandler's  history — it  was  his 
niece  that — but  he  said  even  if  Mr.  Chandler  had 
known  him  he  was  too  absorbed  to  have  noticed  him. 
He  took  it  upon  himself  to  write  a  warning  note  to 
Miss  Newlin,  whom  he  had  known  long  before,  but 
it  had  little  effect.  When  Miss  Newlin  came  on  deck 
she  had  a  talk  with  him  (Marquand),  and  thanked 
him  for  his  interest;  but  she  told  him  there  were 
circumstances  that  made  it  seem  best  not  to  interfere 
just  then  with  the  flirtation  (that  was  what  he  called 
it).  He  said  Mary  behaved  with  absolute  propriety, 
and  so  did  Mr.  Chandler,  for  that  matter.  'He 
behaved  so  well  and  got  around  the  chaperon  so 
tactfully  that  I  saw  he  was  in  dead  earnest,'  he  said; 
'and  it  made  me  sick  to  have  him  look  at  such  a  girl 
as  that.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from  knocking 
him  down  on  the  spot.' 

"Then,  after  Miss  Newlin's  death,  which  occurred 
suddenly  only  a  day  or  so  out  from  New  York,  it 

24 


370  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

was  very  natural  that  Mr.  Chandler  should  take 
hold  and  should  keep  hold  when  you  were  not  there 
to  meet  them.'"' 

Again  John's  face  went  down  in  his  hands.  Again 
a  hoarse  "Go  on!"  was  his  only  comment. 

"Of  course,  Mary  expected  you  and  did  all  she 
could  to  find  out  about  you,  but  Mr.  Chandler  acted 
as  her  helper  all  along  the  line.  He  went  to  Chester 
with  the  body  and  was  going  to  take  Mary  to  the 
funeral,  but  I  turned  up  before  that  and  I  butted 
right  in  and  went  along." 

There  was  an  inarticulate  sound  which  George 
interpreted  as  thanks.  He  then  related  how  he  had 
haunted  the  hotel  until  that  unfortunate  tooth  of 
his  mother's  had  interfered  with  his  police  duty. 
He  told  how,  knowing  the  train  by  which  they  must 
come  back,  some  intuition  had  prompted  him  to  go 
to  the  station  with  a  cock-and-bull  pretext,  and  there 
he  had  met  the  party,  minus  Mary  and  Mr.  Chandler. 
"The  cousin  is  rabidly  jealous  and  the  tone  in  which 
she  told  me  they  had  'missed  the  train'  was  pretty 
expressive.  Of  course,  I  don't  know  what  did  go  on 
and  I  wouldn't  be  likely  to  question  Mary.  We  know 
she  is  incapable  of  doing  anything  underhand,  but 
I  wouldn't  promise  so  much  for  Mr.  Chandler,  with 
such  a  temptation  in  his  way.  He's  not  a  half  bad 
fellow,  and  if  I  had  him  away  from  women  I  should 
enjoy  his  company  ever  so  much."  A  smothered 
sound,  like  a  groan  repressed,  made  George's  face 
quiver.  He  cleared  his  throat.  The  rest  was  terribly 
difficult. 

"John,   you   must   make   allowance   for   scandal- 


A  STRANGE  PROPOSAL  371 

mongers,  and  I  believe  that  cousin  is  capable  of  mak- 
ing up  stories  and  circulating  them,  but  Mr.  Marquand 
is  honest  even  if  he  is  an  old  busybody,  and  he  has 
taken  a  real  fancy  to  Mary  and  always  liked  you. 
He  says" — George  hesitated  with  compassionate 
eyes  on  the  bent  head — "that  Chandler  was  seen  by 
a  friend  of  his  driving  up  to  the  station  at  Paoli, 
with  a  beautiful  girl,  that  evening  around  ten  o'clock. 
I  acted  spy  enough  to  know  that  they  were  back  in 
the  hotel  before  eleven. 

"I  know  from  Mary  herself  that  she  had  a  violent 
scene  with  her  aunt  and  cousin  next  day.  She  just 
said  that  they  insulted  her  in  the  most  outrageous 
way,  and  she  rushed  off  to  Catharine's.  I'm  sorry 
she  didn't  go  there  first,  but  she  was  in  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  (about  you  even  more  than  Miss  Newlin), 
and  she  wanted  to  be  in  touch  with  things,  of  course." 
George  did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  give  his  whole 
opinion  on  that  point,  but  something  told  him  John 
understood. 

"She  got  to  Catharine's  and  found  the  house  closed 
(she  told  me  this  herself),  and  the  neighbor  who  keeps 
the  key  said  Catharine  had  gone  to  a  cousin  of  her 
husband's  at  Doylestown,  who  was  about  to  be  con- 
fined, and  whose  nurse  was  hurt  somehow.  The 
woman  expected  Catharine  back  at  Fernwood  by 
evening — it  was  six  o'clock  then.  She  told  Mary  she 
would  go  over  and  cook  supper  for  her,  only  her  child 
was  very  sick  and  she  couldn't  leave  him  a  minute. 
She  felt  sure  Catharine  would  be  back  before  bedtime. 
Mary  isn't  timid,  as  you  know,  and  she  said  she  was 
all  right.  She  didn't  even  mind  staying  there  alone  for 


372  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

the  night;  but  in  the  evening  Mr.  Chandler  turned  up. 
I  suppose  he  just  discovered  where  she  was,  and  they 
waited  for  Catharine  till  the  last  train  from  up  the 
road,  and  then  she  said  Mr.  Chandler  wouldn't  be 
persuaded  to  leave  her,  but  sat  on  the  piazza  all  the 
rest  of  the  night  after  she  went  upstairs.  He  went 
away  early  in  the  morning,  and  Catharine  arrived 
soon  after." 

For  some  minutes  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room 
but  the  hurried  breathing  of  the  two  men. 

"John,  I  didn't  need  to  vindicate  Mary  in  your 
eyes.  We  know  she  could  not  lie  in  the  least  detail." 
John's  face  was  suddenly  raised  with  a  white  resolve 
in  which  there  was  absolute  scorn  of  a  doubt. 

"But —  '  George  hesitated,  but  the  intent  eyes 
on  his  forbade  his  hiding  anything.  "Mr.  Marquand 
says  that  the  whole  story,  with  the  worst  possible 
construction  on  it,  is  in  a  dozen  mouths,  and  someone 
has  evidently  spied  on  Mary's  movements,  and  not 
only  spied  but  circulated  a  malicious  report.  Of 
course,  Mr.  Chandler's  character  makes  matters  far 
worse,  and  it  seems  that  the  whole  story  of  Mary's 
mother  has  been  revived  and  added  to  it.  I  hate 
to  tell  you  all  this,  old  man,  but  of  course  you  ought 
to  know.  I've  been  pretty  blue  lately  on  my  own 
account,  but  if  I  could  have  spared  you  this,  I  would 
be  willing  to  be  unhappier  than  I  ever  have  been. 
You  know  that."  His  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  he 
held  out  his  hand.  John  rose  quickly,  wrung  it  hard, 
seized  the  straw  hat  he  had  flung  on  the  table  on 
entering  the  room,  and  was  gone. 

It  was  a  dull  afternoon  with  a  sultry  wind  that 


A  STRANGE  PROPOSAL  373 

brought  occasional  sprinkles  of  fine  rain,  too  light  to 
be  called  showers — the  sort  of  day  when  you  wish 
it  would  rain  hard  and  have  done  with  it.  The  little 
house  looked  melancholy  and  deserted,  but,  of 
course  they  would  not  be  sitting  on  the  wet  piazza. 
Where  was  she?  John's  breathing  was  so  hard  and 
quick  he  had  to  stop  to  recover  himself.  He  would 
take  her  by  surprise;  he  would  not  step  upon  the 
path  nor  porch;  he  would  go  around  on  the  grass  to 
the  kitchen.  If  no  one  were  in  sight,  he  would  find 
a  sheltered  corner  of  the  little  porch  and  wait.  As 
he  stole  around  the  house  to  the  left,  he  did  not  try 
to  hide  himself  from  the  windows,  for  he  felt  sure  they 
would  not  be  in  the  parlor  at  that  time  of  day,  and  the 
one  kitchen  window  on  that  side  showed  no  sign  of 
life  as  he  came  abreast  of  it,  and  emitted  no  sound, 
though  it  was  wide  open.  A  feeling  of  apprehension 
seized  him.  Were  they  lying  down?  It  was  so  un- 
like tireless  Mary  to  be  lying  down.  Was  she  much 
changed — ill,  perhaps,  and  Catharine  in  charge? 
He  could  not  wait  to  know.  He  must  call  them. 
He  no  longer  tried  to  walk  softly,  but  the  thick  grass 
deadened  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  and  unconsciously 
furthered  his  first  purpose.  As  he  turned  the  corner 
his  heart  gave  a  bound  and  stopped  beating.  Then 
it  went  on  at  such  a  headlong  pace  that  it  made  a 
thundering  in  his  ears  and  a  mist  before  his  eyes. 
She  was  so  close  to  him  and  so  unconscious!  Seated 
in  the  little  rocker,  her  face  was  buried  on  her  arms 
on  the  table  while  a  dress-waist  on  which  she  had 
evidently  been  sewing  trailed  one  of  its  sleeves  upon 
the  floor  as  it  hung  half  off  her  lap.  Only  once  had 


374  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

he  ever  seen  this  drooping,  discouraged  pose.  The 
memory  of  that  evening  at  Beach  Haven  when  she 
had  wished  "he  had  not  let  her  get  so  used  to  him" 
came  vividly  to  his  mind,  bringing  a  thrill  of  hope 
and  courage.  Oh,  to  make  her  "used  to  him"  again! 

"Mary,"  he  said  softly.  He  expected  her  face  to 
brighten  with  sudden  joy.  How  often  he  had  been 
welcomed  by  that  radiant  gladness!  But  he  was 
quite  unprepared  for  the  emotion  he  read  there  now. 
She  had  sprung  up  and  stood  motionless,  looking  at 
him  as  though  she  could  not  trust  her  senses,  her  face 
white  and  quivering,  her  hands  pressed  to  her  bosom. 
John  sprang  up  the  steps  at  a  bound  and  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  and  with  her  face  buried  on  his  breast, 
she  sobbed  with  a  child's  abandon.  Neither  could 
have  spoken  just  then,  but  words  were  not  needed. 

Catharine,  who  came  running  downstairs,  her 
dress  only  half  on  and  a  buttonhook  in  one  hand, 
gave  a  loud,  joyous  exclamation  as  she  reached  the 
kitchen  door,  and  then  covered  her  face  and  sank 
upon  the  nearest  chair,  dropping  the  buttonhook 
with  a  clatter  and  utterly  forgetting  her  partial 
dishabille. 

"The  Lord  be  praised!"  she  ejaculated  at  last. 
"Now  she'll  be  all  right,  poor  lamb."  Then,  with  a 
sudden  recollection  of  her  open  dress,  she  beat  a 
hasty  retreat  to  the  upper  regions,  feeling,  moreover, 
that  her  presence  was  not  needed  below  stairs. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  either  John  or  Mary 
moved  or  uttered  a  word.  She  tried  to  draw  away 
at  last,  but  he  would  not  let  her  go,  and  she  laid  her 
head  against  him  again  and  asked  with  downcast 


375 


eyes  and  a  broken  voice:  "Where  did  you  come  from, 
John?  Did  Mr.  Raymond  tell  you — ?" 

"I  got  back  from  the  west  at  one  o'clock  and  saw 
George  at  once.  I  know  a  little  of  what  has  happened. 
I  came  here  to  know  the  rest." 

"Oh,  I  have  wanted  you  so!"  she  said,  the  tears 
starting  afresh. 

"Come  in  where  we  can  sit  down,"  John  said, 
feeling  her  tremble  and  droop  as  though  her  strength 
failed  her.  He  did  not  sit  beside  her  when  they 
reached  the  little  parlor,  but  faced  her  with  his  back 
to  the  window,  where  he  could  watch  the  face  he  had 
not  seen  in  so  long  a  time,  his  own  in  shadow.  He 
had  not  thought  to  find  her  so  changed! 

He  told  her  then  of  his  having  missed  the  cablegram 
with  the  news  of  their  homecoming,  and  of  his  careful 
arrangements  about  mail  having  miscarried  through 
an  accident  to  a  guide.  Of  his  forced  journeys  on 
foot  and  by  canoe  he  did  not  speak — only  mentioning 
his  receipt  of  the  bundle  of  letters  at  the  same  time 
as  George's  telegram.  Mary's  story  was  a  longer 
one  and  her  face  made  a  very  varied  accompaniment 
to  the  recital.  John  hardly  spoke,  but  his  whole 
body  listened,  and  she  saw  his  hands  clench  more  than 
once.  She  forbore  to  quote  her  aunt  and  cousin  in 
full,  but  John  understood  enough.  She  saw  him 
shiver  when  she  told  of  Mr.  Chandler's  following  her 
there  to  Fernwood. 

"He  has  asked  you  to  marry  him,  Mary?"  he  said 
in  a  hoarse  voice,  utterly  unlike  his  own. 

"Oh,  yes!"    The  inflection  was  significant. 

•''And  you—?" 


376  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  The  blood  rushed  to  the  roots 
of  her  soft  hair. 

"Because  you  do  not  care  for  him?"  Still  that 
strange  low  voice. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  love  him!"  she  said  hurriedly, 
the  crimson  deepening,  if  that  were  possible.  "But 
I  do  care  a  great  deal  about  him. — I  cannot  explain 
it. — I  am  almost  afraid  of  him.  I  mean —  "  inter- 
rupting herself  hastily  as  she  saw  John's  hands  tremble. 
"I  am  almost  afraid  of  myself.  He  would  not  touch 
me  again'' — she  had  not  omitted  Mr.  Chandler's 
behavior  at  Valley  Forge — "but —  John  waited 
motionless  except  for  that  trembling  that  would 
not  be  controlled — "but  I  was  not  altogether  angry 
when  he  kissed  me."  The  confession  was  made 
with  downcast  eyes  and  quivering  lips. 

"Why  do  you  think  that  you  do  not  love  him?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  only  one  thrilling  second, 
but  something  in  them  went  through  and  through 
him.  His  half -formed  purpose  was  suddenly  a  whole 
one.  "Because  I  know,"  she  said  faintly,  while  the 
dark  lashes  swept  her  burning  cheeks. 

"Would  you  marry  me,  Mary?" 

"You!  Oh,  no!"  she  said  passionately,  burying 
her  face  in  her  hands.  John  did  not  move  a  muscle. 

"I  don't  want  to  marry  anyone/"  her  face  was  still 
hidden.  "I  want  to  get  away  from  it  all  and  be 
quiet." 

"Understand  me,  dear,"  John  went  on  as  quietly 
as  though  he  were  speaking  of  a  suitable  boarding 
place  for  her,  "I  do  not  ask  you —  He  stopped  and 
drew  a  hard  breath;  "I  only  ask  you  to  take  my 


A  STRANGE  PROPOSAL  377 

name;  to  let  me  have  the  right  to  keep  you  with  me. 
You  shall  be  just  as  free  as  you  are  now,  and  just  as 
much  a  child  as  you  were  at  Beach  Haven.  You 
shall  study  law  and  help  me  with  my  work  as  you 
used  to  plan  to  do."  His  eyes  were  riveted  upon  her 
downcast  face,  which  she  had  uncovered,  and  what 
he  read  there  made  this  strangest  of  strange  proposals 
grow  more  and  more  assured.  "  You  used  to  be  happy 
with  me,"  he  went  on,  but  she  interrupted  him. 
"Happy!  Oh!  But  I  couldn't!  You  don't  know 
what  unkind  things  people  are  saying  about  me." 
Her  voice  sank  very  low. 

"Who  told  you  so?"  he  asked  with  ominous  calm- 
ness. 

"Aunt  Annie  wrote  me  that  everybody  was  saying 
that  I  had  been  in  Mr.  Chandler's  company  out 
here.  Oh,  John!  I  cannot  repeat  all  she  said." 

John  rose  suddenly  and  walked  back  and  forth  in 
the  little  room  like  a  caged  lion,  to  the  imminent 
danger  of  the  chairs  and  tables. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  stopping  abruptly  in  front  of  her. 
"I  am  going  to  see  your  aunt  to-day  and  have  a  little 
talk  with  her.  I  shall  tell  her  that  you  are  to  be 
married  next  week — I  can  get  a  license  to-morrow — 
and  that  I  shall  soon  find  means  to  muzzle  scandal- 
mongers. I  must  see  her  this  once,  and  then  I  never 
want  to  set  my  eyes  upon  her  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

"Oh,  John!"  Mary  cried,  utterly  breathless  and 
scared.  He  sat  down  again  and  leaned  toward  her, 
taking  one  hand  and  holding  it  tight. 

"Don't  be  frightened;  I  shall  behave  with  decent 
self-control,"  he  said  gently,  wilfully  misinterpreting 


378  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

her.  "I  would  wait  to  ask  people,  only  everyone  is 
away.  Perhaps  it  will  be  better  to  wait  till  I  can 
have  announcements  engraved  and  directed.  I 
wish  Mrs.  Wharton  were  at  home  and  we  could  be 
married  from  her  house."  (His  coolness  was  having 
its  effect,  but  he  saw  he  had  need  of  all  his  powers.) 
"If  only  Mrs.  Logan  would  suggest  our  going  there, 
but  Ellen's  being  away 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  be  married  from  there!"  The 
suggestion  evidently  moved  her  deeply,  but  drew 
her  mind  for  an  instant  away  from  the  main  cause  of 
agitation.  John  understood.  He  waited  for  her  to 
regain  composure,  making  no  effort  to  keep  the  hand 
she  hastily  withdrew;  but  composure  was  out  of  the 
question  just  yet. 

"Oh,  John,  I  can't  do — what  you  ask.  You  don't 
know— 

Again  he  waited.  "You  are  quite  sure  you  have 
no  least  feeling  for  either  Edward  Logan  or  Philip?— 
that  there  is  no  younger  man  who — ?"  But  his 
voice  no  longer  showed  suspense. 

"No  indeed,"  raising  her  eyes  frankly  to  his, 
"nobody  in  the  world,  but —  (Self-control 

would  not  come.) 

"Then  we  will  have  no  more  'buts,'"  he  answered 
quickly,  rising  and  moving  away  lest  he  should 
succumb  to  temptation. 

"She  loves  me  better  than  she  knows,  and  it  is 
the  only  way."  Her  eyes  had  spoken  in  a  fashion 
that  went  far  to  silence  qualms.  Those  years  of  close 
companionship,  of  full  correspondence,  had  built  a 
foundation  after  all — or  so  it  seemed — too  strong  to 


A   STRANGE  PROPOSAL  379 

be  shaken  by  a  sudden  attraction,  however  strong. 
He  could  wait  longer.  He  was  so  used  to  waiting! 
But  surely  there  were  considerations  now  that  forbade 
waiting,  and  made  effectual  protection  for  her  impera- 
tive. 

"Mary."  He  stopped  his  peregrinations  at  the 
other  side  of  the  room  and  looked  toward  her  in  a 
shamefaced  way,  while  he  drew  something  from  an 
inner  pocket,  "I  bought  this  ring  once,  because," 
he  paused,  "I  hoped  I  might  give  it  to  you  some  time, 
if  only  as  a  pledge  of  our  friendship,  of  our  future 
partnership."  He  came  slowly  toward  her,  opening 
the  little  case.  "You  will  let  me  put  it  on  now?" 

Mary  looked  down  at  the  ring  on  its  velvet  back- 
ground and  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes.  What  ought 
she  to  do?  She  was  so  alone  but  for  him,  and  he — 
"Oh,  it  isn't  right!"  she  cried  brokenly,  but  she  very 
slowly  reached  her  left  hand  toward  him,  and  he  took 
it  quickly  and  put  it  to  his  lips,  as  though  he  would 
seal  the  contract  before  she  had  time  to  repent. 
He  slipped  the  little  circlet  on  her  finger  and  stood 
looking  down  on  it  with  an  emotion  that  made  words 
impossible.  The  dull  gray  light  from  the  window 
sufficed  to  draw  out  the  brilliance  of  the  twin  stones, 
but  Mary's  eyes  were  too  full  to  see,  and  her  bosom 
was  rising  and  falling  stormily.  The  firm  clasp  in 
which  her  hand  was  held  steadied  her  as  it  always 
had  in  the  old  days,  and  quenched  the  tumult  of  doubt 
and  misgiving  in  a  flood  of  warm,  sweet  remembrance. 

"I  have  to  go  to  Canada  on  business  very  soon," 
John  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice  that  belied  the 
underlying  thrill.  "I  want  you  to  go  with  me  there, 


380  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

but  afterward — you  are  to  be  free  to  go  or  come  just 
as  you  like  and  do  whatever  you  want — only — always 
remember — you  are  making  me  very  happy."  His 
voice  got  beyond  control  for  a  moment,  but  he  steadied 
it  quickly  and  let  go  her  hand. 

"Now  we  must  tell  Catharine,"  he  said  briskly. 
"She  is  very  tactful  and  patient." 

He  took  down  his  old  friend,  the  Bernese,  as  he 
went  by,  and  seemed  to  contemplate  kissing  her; 
but  he  set  her  up  again  without  a  word  and  left  her 
to  gaze  on  her  surroundings  as  unmoved  as  though  no 
quiet  revolution  had  just  taken  place  in  her  immediate 
neighborhood. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

MR.  CHANDLER  READS  THE  NEWSPAPER 

MR.  CHANDLER  stood  in  the  dining-room  of 
his  sister's  country  house  at  Radnor.  She 
was  away  from  home,  but  he  had  the  freedom 
of  the  premises,  and  since  Mary  was  out  of  town,  he 
was  glad  to  avail  himself  of  the  quiet  of  this  retreat. 
He  had  seen  a  curious  look  on  the  face  of  his  fellow 
club-members  the  day  before,  and  had  found  a  marked 
copy  of  Town  Topics  in  his  morning  mail,  a  perusal 
of  which  had  made  his  blood  boil.  The  fact  that  no 
names  were  mentioned  served  as  a  screen  for  the  cow- 
ardly attack,  but  he  would  gladly  have  driven  the 
editor  from  cover  and  made  him  swallow  his  words 
if  the  charge  had  been  more  than  a  scandalous  insinua- 
tion. "And  I  could  only  do  her  more  harm  than 
good  by  defending  her.  Even  my  word  is  of  no  account 
in  such  a  case!"  "A  good  name  is  rather  to  be 
chosen  than  great  riches  " — the  old  proverb  that  he  had 
laboriously  written  and  rewritten,  line  after  line, 
in  his  childish  copy-book  and  long  ago  forgotten,  came 
flashing  back  before  his  eye  in  just  the  round  cramped 
hand  in  which  it  had  stood  on  the  carefully  lined  page. 
Oh,  to  wipe  out  all  that  lay  between  then  and  now! 
Bitterness  and  pain  made  eating  impossible. 

"I'm  not  feeling  up  to  the  mark,  Hughes,"  he  said 

(381) 


382  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

to  the  solicitous  butler.  "I  think  I'll  just  go  outside. 
I'm  better  off  without  eating." 

"Won't  you  take  the  paper,  sir?  I'm  very  sorry 
you're  not  feeling  yourself."  Mr.  Chandler  was  a 
favorite  with  his  sister's  retainers  and  Hughes  had  got 
him  what  he  knew  he  liked  best  for  breakfast,  and  cast 
a  mournful  look  now  at  the  exquisite  melon  with  its 
burden  of  ice. 

Mr.  Chandler  had  a  consciousness  of  being  observed 
from  the  library  window,  and  turned  his  back  to  the 
house,  taking  up  the  Press  and  ostensibly  poring  over 
its  contents. 

"I  will  see  her  once  again  and  use  all  the  eloquence 
I  can  command,  but  what  can  I  say  more  than  I  have 
said?"  He  knew  he  was  not  base  enough  to  urge 
her  marrying  him  for  conventional  reasons.  "Surely 
she  need  never  know  that  her  good  name  was  being 
called  in  question." 

He  had  looked  a  long  time  at  that  front  sheet,  and 
the  back  of  his  head  seemed  to  feel  the  butler's  eye 
upon  it  from  afar.  He  turned  the  page  with  elaborate 
care  and  glanced  idly  at  the  headlines — "Patience 
Rewarded  " — What  did  that  matter  to  him?  Suddenly 
the  words  of  that  short  article  were  burned  into 
his  consciousness  before  he  could  even  say  that  he 
had  read  them. 

We  are  interested  to  hear  of  the  approaching  marriage  of 
Philadelphia's  rising  lawyer,  Mr.  John  Brown,  who  came  prom- 
inently before  the  public  eye  last  winter  through  his  successful 

handling  of  the  R case.     Mr.  Brown  is  about  to  crown  his 

success  in  another  department  of  life,  and  his  many  warm  friends 
rejoice  with  him  in  the  fulfilment  of  a  long  cherished  hope.  For 


MR.  CHANDLER  READS  NEWSPAPER  383 

it  seems  that  there  is  a  romantic  story  attached  to  the  coming 
event. 

He  has  been  for  several  years  the  guardian  of  his  future 
wife,  who  is  only  nineteen,  and  is  the  daughter  of  his  oldest 
and  best  friend,  the  late  Richard  Farnham,  of  the  Quaker  branch 
of  that  well-known  family.  She  has  spent  the  years  since  her 
father's  death  under  the  educational  wing  of  Miss  Harriet  E. 
Newlin,  the  distinguished  principal  of  Beechfield  School,  who 
died  recently  on  the  return  voyage  from  Europe  with  her  ward 
and  pupil.  This  sudden  bereavement  has  served  to  hasten  the 
nuptials  for  which  Mr.  Brown,  we  are  told,  has  been  patiently 
waiting. 

Owing  to  the  sad  circumstances  surrounding  the  pair — for 
Mr.  Brown's  mother,  the  widow  of  the  late  Joseph  Brown,  is 
also  recently  deceased — the  wedding  will  be  a  very  quiet  one, 
only  intimate  friends  of  the  contracting  parties  being  present. 
The  ceremony  is  to  be  performed  on  August  8th,  at  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Trinity,  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  McVickar,  rector  of  the 

parish,  who  is  coming  back  from  ,  where  he  is  passing 

his  vacation  time,  to  officiate  at  this  important  crisis  in  the  life 
of  one  of  his  most  valued  parishioners. 

If  the  eyes  that  Mr.  Chandler  suspected  behind 
him  were  really  there,  they  only  saw  the  paper  slowly 
lowered  and  a  shapely  brown  hand  reach  for  the  Pan- 
ama hat  on  the  chair  beside  him  and  draw  it  low 
over  his  eyes. 

"A  good  nap  will  do  'im  more  good  than  medicine, 
I  dare  say,"  the  reassured  butler  remarked  to  himself 
two  hours  later.  "  'E  'asn't  stirred  since  ten  o'clock." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

A  QUEST  FOR  A  COUNTRY  HOME 

JOHN  had  never  belonged  to  that  wing  of  the 
Church  which  holds  that  the  human  soul  would 
be  unable  to  enter  the  highest  heaven  all  at  one 
burst,  but  must  pass  through — if  not  a  real  purgatory 
— at  least  an  "intermediate  place  " — a  sort  of  prepara- 
tory Paradise.  He  gave  little  time  to  speculation 
of  that  kind,  trusting  his  future  life  to  God  as  one 
trusts  the  itinerary  of  a  voyage  to  a  tried  Friend,  not 
without  interest,  but  without  concern. 

As  regards  the  present,  he  did  feel  in  those  first 
wonderful  weeks  of  his  "amazing  marriage"  that  his 
heart  would  have  been  unable  to  bear  a  more  complete 
happiness  all  at  once  after  its  long  abstention.  The 
future  was  his,  he  believed ;  he  was  amply  content  with 
the  existing  state  of  things.  All  the  chivalry  of  his 
nature  was  enlisted,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  barely 
saved  Mary  from  a  peril,  and  must  use  his  advantage 
now  with  the  greatest  delicacy.  That  he  had  saved 
her  heart-whole,  or  nearly  so,  he  did  not  doubt,  even 
after  her  frank  confession ;  and  if  her  eyes  were  often 
less  ready  to  meet  his  than  they  used  to  be,  there  was 
no  fault  to  be  found  with  them  when  they  did. 

Perfect  married  love  must  hold,  in  just  proportion, 
the  elements  of  all  other  love.  The  true  husband  must 

(384) 


A  QUEST  FOR  A  COUNTRY  HOME     385 

combine  something  of  father  and  mother,  brother, 
sister,  friend  and  lover.  But  are  there  many  true 
husbands,  if  that  be  the  standard?  I  think  there  are; 
at  least,  there  are  many  who  conform  to  it  in  some 
particulars  or  in  some  degree.  If  "nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine"  fall  short  in  kind  or  quantity,  I  hope  by 
this  time  I  have  convinced  my  readers  that  in  John 
Brown  we  are  dealing  with  "the  thousandth  mm"; 
otherwise  I  have  been  but  a  poor  chronicler.  Yet  even 
Mary,  who  would  have  classed  him  rather  as  the 
"millionth,"  and  would  then  have  denied  the  possi- 
bility of  ever  finding  eighty-nine  others  in  the  United 
States  (and  indeed,  in  those  days  there  were  fewer  to 
select  from!),  began  to  doubt  whether  the  paternal 
and  fraternal  elements  in  him  were  not  developed 
at  the  expense  of  the  passions,  and  to  wonder  whether 
it  would  have  been  possible  to  "someone  else"  to 
subsist  so  contentedly  on  a  purely  Platonic  diet. 
She  put  the  thought  from  her  over  and  over  again 
and  declined  to  recognize  the  intruder  as  hers;  but 
— have  you  ever  tried  to  get  rid  of  an  importunate 
thought?  Just  when  the  first  doubt  came  to  trouble 
John's  unselfish  peace  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  Not 
during  those  weeks  in  Canadian  town  and  country, 
where  they  walked  together,  rowed  together,  visited 
the  sights  of  the  great  cities,  explored  the  wonders  of 
the  great  rivers,  and  made  friends  with  Indians  and 
French.  They  suited  each  other  completely,  as  they 
always  had.  John  recognized  that  Mary  was  much 
changed,  and  he  would  have  been  surprised  not  to 
find  her  sobered  by  her  recent  experiences.  He 
knew  she  must  mourn  Miss  Newlin,  who  had  been  so 

25 


386  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

true  and  loving  a  friend,  companion  and  guide.  It 
was  but  natural  that  her  eyes  should  sometimes  fill 
and  that  her  face  should  have  that  pensive,  far-off 
look  when  her  voyage  home  was  recalled.  It  was  nat- 
ural that  the  news  of  Mr.  Chandler's  leaving  "for 
big  game  hunting  in  India"  should  move  her  strongly. 
There  must  be  something  good  in  the  man,  when  even 
George  could  not  speak  of  him  without  feeling — some- 
thing apart  from  his  physical  and  mental  attractions. 
John  trusted  Mary  implicitly,  but  he  could  not  help 
a  secret  satisfaction  that  India  was  a  long  way  off. 

The  city  seemed  stuffy  and  dirty  after  their  free  life 
in  the  open,  and  the  house  dark  and  confining.  They 
were  glad  to  get  out  to  the  last  of  the  cricket  matches, 
which  occurred  the  day  after  they  got  home;  but  for 
the  first  time  Mary  was  conscious  not  only  of  many 
eyes  upon  her,  but  of  more  curiosity  than  friendliness 
in  some.  Estelle  Gill  had  done  her  work  thoroughly 
before  she  left  the  city.  Instinctively  Mary  drew 
a  little  nearer  to  her  big  protector,  and  the  wonder 
came  over  her  what  her  position  would  have  been  now 
without  him.  To  be  sure,  she  had  some  very  loyal 
friends.,  Had  not  every  member  of  the  Logan  family 
come  from  far  and  near  to  her  wedding,  from  Mr. 
Logan  himself,  who  rarely  moved  from  home,  down 
to  ecstatic  Priscilla,  who  felt  that  those  birthday 
rings  had  been  the  "real  thing,"  and  that  she  might 
confidently  look  forward  to  the  day  when  she  too 
should  stand  at  the  altar  in  a  white  dress  with  a  trail 
and  a  beautiful,  filmy  veil  on  her  head.  But  she 
decided  that  she  would  be  married  at  a  time  of  year 
when  satin  or  heavy  silk  would  not  be  too  warm. 


"Of  course,  Mary  would  look  beautiful  in  anything," 
but  batiste,  however  daintily  made  and  trimmed, 
was  too  simple  for  the  taste  of  the  youngest  Miss 
Logan. 

Mary's  mind  was  full  of  the  memory  as  she  watched 
the  game  with  absent  eyes.  She  recalled  what  she 
had  felt  when  Edward  came  up  to  her  and  grasped 
her  hand  after  that  solemn  ceremony.  "Mary,"  he 
had  said,  with  a  brave  smile,  "he  deserves  even  you, 
and  there  is  no  one  else  who  ever  could." 

Did  John  notice  the  sensation  they  were  making, 
Mary  wondered  now?  If  he  did,  it  seemed  to  trouble 
him  not  at  all.  He  noticed  her  involuntary  movement 
and  looked  down  at  her  for  a  moment  in  a  way  to 
make  her  heart  beat  faster,  and  convince  all  whom  it 
might  concern  that  he  was  not  ashamed  of  his  bargain. 

The  trees  had  only  just  begun  to  show  signs  of 
autumn,  though  October  was  already  come.  The  air 
was  as  mild  as  summer.  As  they  waited  for  their 
train,  on  the  crowded  platform,  John  suddenly  looked 
down  at  her  with  a  very  crooked  smile.  "Mary,  how 
would  you  like  to  live  in  the  country?"  he  asked. 

"Oh!"  was  all  the  answer  he  got,  but  her  face  spoke 
for  her. 

"It  would  have  to  be  for  all  the  year,  I  think,  unless 
we  come  in  to  a  hotel  for  a  few  months  to  give  you 
some  dissipation.  Wouldn't  that  frighten  you?" 

"The  hotel  might,  but  never  the  country,"  she 
declared  enthusiastically;  and  then  they  were  inter- 
rupted by  an  acquaintance.  Next  day  John  suggested 
their  going  on  quests  of  houses  or  building  sites  while 
the  fine  autumn  weather  lasted,  and  it  was  the  first 


388  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

of  several  excursions  to  the  north  and  west  of  the  city, 
George  sometimes  being  asked  to  join  them. 

"It  is  lucky  for  my  business  that  this  is  a  rainy 
day,"  John  said  at  lunch  a  couple  of  weeks  later. 
"I've  got  to  shirking  so  I  shall  soon  be  snowed  under." 
He  sighed  at  the  thought  of  the  autumn  woods  and 
of  Mary  in  the  house  alone. 

"  I  had  a  note  from  Ellen  this  morning,  asking  if  she 
might  bring  Miss  Hutchinson  to  call  on  me  some 
afternoon — of  course,  she  knew  she  might — and  when 
it  would  suit  me.  So  I  sent  John  Patterson  around 
there  at  once  to  suggest  their  coming  this  afternoon, 
because  I  knew  we  couldn't  go  land-hunting  in  this 
weather.  Ellen  sent  back  word  that  she  was  free  and 
she  was  almost  sure  Miss  Hutchinson  was,  so  I  suppose 
they  will  come.  I  do  wish  you  were  going  to  be  at 
home,  for  I  should  like  you  to  see  her  too;  but  it  is 
too  good  a  chance  for  you  to  get  on  with  your  work. 
When  am  I  going  to  begin  to  help  you?"  She  colored 
brightly  as  she  smiled  up  at  him. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  John's  dyke  needed  extra 
vigilance  these  days,  and  the  hope  was  growing  fast 
that  he  might  soon  lay  it  flat  once,  for  all.  His  head 
reeled  at  the  thought  when  it  came,  and  he  dared  not 
look  at  her  smiling  lips;  still  less  at  her  sad  ones. 
She  was  a  tremendous  tax  on  his  self-control  when  he 
found  her  dreaming  over  the  fire  that  afternoon  as 
he  came  in  from  the  raw  darkness  of  the  street. 

"Oh,  John!"  It  was  the  old,  impulsive  exclamation 
that  he  loved,  and  her  face  was  very  bright  as  she 
sprang  up  to  meet  him;  but  he  saw  that  there  had 
been  tears  in  her  eyes  the  moment  before — the  glim- 


A  QUEST  FOR  A  COUNTRY  HOME     389 

mer  of  them  was  still  there.  It  was  perfectly  natural 
that  he  should  find  that  glimmer  there  oftener  since 
they  got  home.  There  were  so  many  things  to  remind 
her  of  Miss  Newlin! 

"Miss  Hutchinson  is  charming,  and  what  do  you 
think  she  said!  When  she  heard  about  our  country 
plans  and  what  a  hard  time  we  had  had  finding  a 
place  that  suited  us  and  wasn't  too  expensive,  she 
asked  if  we  would  care  for  her  part  of  the  country, 
and  said  she  would  gladly  sell  us  some  of  her  own 
property — fifteen  or  even  twenty  acres,  if  we  wanted 
so  much — for  five  hundred  dollars  an  acre.  Just 
imagine!  That  is  such  an  expensive  section!  But 
money  is  nothing  to  her,  I  suppose,  and  she  says  her 
place  is  so  big  she  feels  lonely,  only  she  has  been  afraid 
of  neighbors  not  being  congenial." 

"How  does  she  know  that  she  would  find  us  con- 
genial? You  must  have  made  a  rapid  and  complete 
conquest."  He  spoke  lightly,  but  a  flush  rose  to  his 
forehead,  and  there  was  sudden  fire  in  his  eyes. 

"She  has  heard  a  great  deal  about  you,"  Mary 
went  on  rather  hurriedly  and  looking  away  from  him. 
"She  seemed  really  eager  to  have  you  decide  to  take 
the  land.  It  is  the  site  of  a  farm-house  that  was 
burned  down  long  ago,  and  there  are  lovely  trees  and 
woods  and  a  creek.  Couldn't  we  go  and  see  it  to-mor- 
row? I  am  sure  from  the  way  Ellen  made  eyes  at 
me  behind  Miss  Hutchinson's  back  that  she  meant 
that  it  was  Mr.  Raymond  who  had  talked  so  much 
about  you.  Do  you  suppose ?" 

"Well,  what,  for  instance?" 

"You  know."     She  was  not  looking  at  him ;  was  it 


390  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

only  the  firelight  that  made  her  cheeks  so  bright? 
He  took  a  quick  step  forward,  but  something  arrested 
him. 

"Ellen  said  the ,  other  day  that  'Cousin  Mary' 
thought  'Caroline'  missed  Mr.  Raymond  more  than 
she  knew  herself.  Perhaps  part  of  her  reason  for 
wanting  us  for  neighbors  is  that — of  course,  she  must 
know  he  would  build  our  house  for  us,  and — 

Why  did  John's  good  angel  desert  him?  That 
sudden  strong  impulse  to  take  her  in  his  arms  gave 
place  to  a  timidity  that  made  his  manner  unnatural 
and  constrained. 

The  visit  was  paid  next  day,  and  Miss  Hutchinson's 
cordial  simplicity  and  sincerity  won  John  almost  as 
easily  as  the  beautiful  land  in  its  brilliant  October 
setting.  The  bargain  was  quickly  made  and  the 
papers  were  in  course  of  preparation  when  the  news 
was  broken  to  George.  Mary's  gossip  had  roused 
John's  curiosity  and  sympathy,  but  he  was  unprepared 
for  George's  emotion. 

"John,"  he  said  in  a  very  unsteady  voice  after  a 
long,  embarrassed  pause,  "I  am  going  to  ask  you  to 
get  somebody  else  to  build  that  house  for  you." 

John  went  over  to  him  and  put  one  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  "I  can't  let  you  off  so  easily,"  he  said 
lightly;  then  seeing  the  sensitive,  pained  flush  on 
George's  face,  he  pressed  the  shoulder  firmly,  and  said 
with  teasing  emphasis  on  each  word,  "  George,  nobody 
has  confided  in  me,  but  I  feel  sure  that  our  landlady 
knew  the  name  of  our  prospective  architect  when  she 
offered  us  the  land." 


CHAPTER  XL 

"No  BIGGER  THAN  A  MAN'S  HAND" 

THE   plans   for   the   new   house   went   happily 
forward,  but  the  business  partnership  met  with 
a  check  in  the  very  beginning.     Mary  found 
herself  an  object  of  such  interest  that  she  knew  she 
interfered  with  John's  work  and  stopped  the  mouths 
of  clients.     He  had  bought  an  office  desk  for  her  and 
fitted  it  completely,  and  her  pleasure  in  it  and  interest 
in  the  cases  which  were  carefully  explained  to  her  were 
reflected  in  his  face. 

Her  quick,  indignant  sympathy  with  the  wronged,and 
impatience  of  the  slowness  of  the  law,  her  intelligent 
grasp  of  rights  and  wrongs,  and  ardent  longing  to  help 
straighten  things  out,  were  altogether  in  keeping 
with  the  Mary  of  three  years  ago  and  quite  different 
from  the  pensive,  half-shy  reserve  John  often  encoun- 
tered at  home.  Several  times  there  he  had  seen  tears 
in  her  eyes  when  she  thought  herself  unobserved,  and 
more  than  once  she  had  opened  her  lips  as  though  to 
tell  him  something  and  had  evidently  checked  the 
impulse.  One  morning  two  clients  eyed  her  with 
such  impertinent  amusement  that  she  promptly 
retired,  as  indeed  she  generally  did,  foreseeing  con- 
fidences not  intended  for  her  ears.  As  they  passed 
out,  they  did  not  see  her  in  the  cloak  closet  where  she 

(391) 


392  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

had  gone  in  search  of  something,  and  she  heard  ons 
say  with  good-humored  sarcasm,  "If  you  want  to 
find  an  uxorious  fool,  look  for  a  middle-aged  man  with 
a  pretty  young  wife.  She's  a  beauty,  all  right;  but 
imagine  him  bringing  her  down  here  to  his  office  to 
show  off."  Both  passed  on  laughing  and  Mary  stood 
rooted  to  the  floor,  one  hand  in  the  pocket  she  was 
rifling;  her  face  an  indignant  flame. 

What  did  "uxorious"  mean,  anyhow?  Her  Latin 
came  to  her  aid,  but  she  quietly  verified  her  surmises 
by  a  glance  at  the  dictionary  when  she  went  back  to 
the  office. 

"John,"  she  said  a  moment  later,  "I'm  not  coming 
down  here  any  more — at  least  not  when  you  are 
receiving  people.  I  will  help  you  all  I  can  at  home." 
John  saw  she  had  made  up  her  mind  and  saw  also  that 
she  was  averse  to  giving  her  reasons.  He  had  been 
conscious  more  than  once  of  the  sensation  she  was 
causing,  and  felt  that  their  simple,  natural  plan  of 
co-operation  was  not  going  to  work  well.  He  sighed, 
but  made  no  attempt  to  dissuade  her,  and  she  did 
not  come  again.  How  much  he  missed  that  frank 
work  together  no  one  knew,  and  he  had  a  sense  of 
some  barrier  growing  between  them,  none  the  less 
real  because  it  was  intangible.  Had  he  shown  his 
feeling  for  her  too  plainly,  and  was  it  fear  of  his  over- 
stepping the  boundaries  tacitly  agreed  upon  between 
them  that  made  her  often  shy  of  him?  He  held  him- 
self more  carefully  in  check,  remembering  how 
completely  she  had  put  herself  in  his  power. 

Mary  had  opposed  his  wish  to  have  a  reception  for 
her  and  formally  introduce  her  to  his  mother's  circle. 


"NO  BIGGER  THAN  A  MAN'S  HAND"  393 

He  told  her  of  Mrs.  Brown's  plan,  and  saw  that  she 
was  touched  and  gratified,  but  she  would  not  hear  of 
any  large  entertainment  in  the  house  so  soon  after 
its  mistress'  leaving  it,  and  he  acquiesced  for  the  time 
being.  Perhaps  he  might  wait  and  make  it  a  house- 
warming  for  the  new  home.  It  was  one  day  soon  after 
the  dissolution  of  the  business  partnership  that  they 
met  Mrs.  Townsend,  Mr.  Chandler's  sister,  at  the 
house  of  an  old  friend,  where  they  were  making  an 
afternoon  call.  Mary  talked  to  her  with  perfect 
dignity  and  self-possession,  and  John  saw  with  what 
a  melancholy  interest  Mrs.  Townsend's  eyes  dwelt 
on  the  beautiful,  earnest  face  when  she  thought  her 
observation  unnoticed. 

It  was  dark  when  they  started  to  walk  home  in  the 
early  evening,  but  as  they  passed  a  street  lamp  he 
saw  that  Mary  was  struggling  for  composure  and  that 
her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  A  dull,  cold  something 
passed  through  his  heart,  but  with  it  a  resolve  to  face 
the  enemy  in  the  open  if  there  were  one,  and  know  his 
strength  and  quality. 

"What  is  it,  Mary?"  He  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder.  "I  think  I  could  understand  if  you  will 
tell  me."  The  touch  and  words  unnerved  her  and  for 
a  moment  he  thought  she  would  utterly  break  down. 
She  drew  one  hand  from  her  muff  and  slipped  it 
through  his  arm,  while  she  pressed  close  to  him. 

"It's  nothing,  really,"  she  said  brokenly.  "I 
don't  know  what  made  me  cry —  "  trying  hard  to  stop 
the  fast  falling  tears.  "I  must  be  nervous,  I  think." 

John  said  no  more.  He  knew  she  was  not  con- 
sciously prevaricating,  but  the  pain  in  his  throat  was 


394  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

harder.  For  days  and  even  weeks  after  he  saw  an 
appeal  in  her  eyes.  He  felt  there  was  always  that 
checked  impulse  to  tell  him  something.  He  dared  not 
try  to  help  her.  Each  time  the  impression  was  but 
momentary,  and  then  she  would  be  like  herself,  and 
some  unconquerable  cowardice — a  sensitive  fear,  as  of 
the  rough  probing  of  a  wound,  held  him  back. 

A  large  check  had  come  to  him  from  the  little  ladies 
whose  fortunes  he  had  made  by  helping  them  hold  what 
had  proved  valuable  coal  lands;  and  with  it  a  note 
asking  him  to  buy  something  he  most  wanted,  and  not 
to  put  the  money  at  interest.  John  had  acted 
pomptly  and  lavishly,  and  the  week  before  Christmas 
slipped  into  the  office  safe  a  long,  blue  velvet  case 
that  enclosed  a  string  of  lustrous  pearls.  "It  is  an 
outrageous  price  to  pay  for  an  ornament,"  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  closed  the  heavy  door  and  rose  with  a 
shamefaced  smile;  "but  she  need  not  know  that." 

He  pictured  her  pleasure  as  he  walked  home  in  the 
frosty  dusk.  Would  she  perhaps  offer  to  kiss  him? 
He  colored  hotly  at  the  thought.  Surely  he  was  not 
mean  enough  to  want  to  buy  her  kisses!  That  sense 
of  foreboding  was  always  on  him,  chilling  the  warmth 
in  his  heart.  She  was  to  go  to  a  little  parish  meeting 
that  afternoon  to  prepare  for  the  Sunday-school 
Christmas.  She  had  taken  an  interest  in  the  parish 
work  already,  while  frankly  confessing  to  the  rector 
her  scruples  about  joining  the  church.  "If  she  had 
not  come  back  before  this  he  would  go  for  her,"  he 
thought  as  he  put  his  latch-key  in  the  door.  No  sign 
of  her.  John  Patterson  was  just  lighting  the  gas  in 
the  hall.  " 


"NO  BIGGER  THAN  A  MAN'S  HAND"  395 

"  Mrs.  Brown  came  in  a  while  ago,  but  she  said  she 
was  going  round  to  the  news-stand  for  a  paper. 
She  wouldn't  let  me  go  for  her.  She'll  be  back  in  a 
minute,  I  guess." 

John  hesitated  and  then  lingeringly  took  off  his 
coat  and  hung  it  on  the  rack.  John  Patterson  looked 
at  his  master's  thoughtful  face  as  he  turned  and  slowly 
mounted  the  stairs.  At  the  top,  John  paused  and 
listened.  What  was  that?  A  sound  like  a  smothered 
sob.  It  came  from  the  little  glass-partitioned  hall- 
room  which  had  been  his  mother's  favorite  sitting- 
room,  but  which  was  rarely  used  now.  John's  door 
to  it  was  never  opened.  The  glass  door  was  closed 
and  the  curtains  drawn,  but  as  their  top  was  barely 
six  feet  from  the  floor,  they  made  no  barrier  to  his 
sight.  He  did  not  try  to  soften  his  footfalls  nor  to 
peep  over.  He  meant  to  knock,  but  even  as  his  hand 
was  put  out  for  that  purpose  he  stopped  dumb- 
struck by  the  sight  that  met  his  eyes  across  the  silken 
screen. 

Mary  had  not  heard  his  step.  She  was  on  the  floor, 
her  hat  and  jacket  still  on,  her  arms  on  his  mother's 
old  chair  and  her  face  buried  in  them.  In  the  dim  light 
he  saw  the  lithe  body  shaken  with  the  sobs  she  strove 
to  control.  A  newspaper  lay  where  she  had  dropped 
it.  His  hand  was  on  the  knob — his  impulse  to  kneel 
beside  her  and  take  her  in  his  arms;  to  beg  for  her 
whole  confidence,  however  it  might  hurt.  It  could 
not  hurt  him  more  to  know  all  the  truth  he  had  tried 
hard  not  to  suspect.  But  something  stayed  him. 
Why  should  he  force  her  confidence?  He  felt  he  had 
not  strength  just  then  to  bear  the  truth.  He  drew 


396  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

back  and  went  noiselessly  down  the  stairs.  If  her 
trouble  were  something  she  cared  to  explain  she  would 
come  to  him.  Perhaps  in  a  few  minutes  she  would 
bring  the  paper  down  and  tell  him  all?  As  he  sat 
waiting,  he  overcame  the  shrinking  that  had  unmanned 
him,  and  his  heart  was  wrung  more  at  the  memory 
of  that  lonely,  childish  figure  than  at  the  sense  of 
his  own  loneliness. 

More  than  an  hour  passed  before  he  heard  her  step 
in  the  hall  above  and  then  on  the  stairs.  He  rose  and 
came  toward  her.  She  was  paler  than  usual,  but 
quite  composed,  as  she  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand. 
There  was  no  paper  in  it.  But  the  hand  was  cold 
and  the  eyes  held  a  dumb  appeal  that  cut  him  to  the 
quick. 

She  commenced  at  once  to  speak  of  the  Christmas 
preparations  and  was  too  full  of  her  own  self-con- 
sciousness to  notice  John's  constraint. 

"Why,  you  aren't  eating  your  dinner  at  all,  John," 
she  said  when  they  had  been  seated  for  some  time 
opposite  each  other,  under  the  old-fashioned  chandelier 
that  was  an  unbecoming  light  at  best.  "I  thought 
you  were  fond  of  chicken  pie.  Aren't  you  feeling  well, 
you  look  so  pale?" 

John  smiled  a  disclaimer  and  fell  to  eating  at  once. 
"You  are  in  a  conspiracy  with  Bridget  to  make  me 
fat,"  he  said  easily. 

"We  haven't  succeeded  very  well."  Mary  looked 
at  him  with  eyes  so  full  of  unfeigned,  wistful  love 
that  the  lump  in  his  throat  threatened  to  make  further 
inroad  on  the  pie  impossible. 

He  was  down  before  her  in  the  morning,  and  as  his 


"NO  BIGGER  THAN  A  MAN'S  HAND"  397 

eye  fell  on  the  paper  he  saw  at  once  an  article  that  had 
not  been  in  his  Bulletin  of  the  evening  before.  It 
was  a  message  from  a  Bengal  correspondent,  copied 
from  the  London  Times. 

Mr.  David  Chandler,  an  American  sportsman,  who  arrived 
here  last  month  for  the  hunting,  has  barely  escaped  with  his 
life  from  the  onslaught  of  a  furious  tiger.  He  was  hunting  in 

company  with  Lord  B  and  Mr.  Miles  Brandon  and  the 

calamity  is  said  to  have  been  due  to  his  own  reckless  disregard 
of  the  proper  precautions.  The  presence  of  mind  and  unerring 
marksmanship  of  Mr.  Brandon  alone  saved  Mr.  Chandler  from 
being  torn  to  pieces.  As  it  was,  he  was  so  badly  mauled  that 

he  is  now  in  a  critical  condition  in  Lord  B 's  bungalow  near 

here. 

John  read  no  further.  John  Patterson  had  left 
the  room ;  his  heavy  tread  could  be  heard  on  the  cellar 
stairs.  What  was  best  to  do?  Speak  to  Mary  frankly 
and  kindly  of  what  he  had  seen?  Say  nothing  and 
pretend  not  to  have  looked  at  the  paper?  The  recol- 
lection of  yesterday,  of  her  grief,  was  too  vivid.  He 
knew  he  could  not  subject  either  her  or  himself  to 
such  a  trial — at  least,  before  a  third  party.  "Critical 
condition" — the  words  repeated  themselves  in  his 
brain.  "God  forgive  me!"  he  prayed  mutely.  He 
took  two  steps  to  the  fire  and  hastily  laid  the  crumpled 
paper  on  the  burning  logs. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

"A  LITTLE  SOMETHING — TO  EARN  HEAVEN" 

JOHN  sat  in  his  office  the  afternoon  before  Christ- 
mas, his  head  bowed  on  his  hands,  in  deep 
thought.  Suddenly  he  lifted  his  heavy  eyes 
to  a  framed  group  of  a  cricketing  eleven  on  the  wall 
above  his  desk,  in  the  forefront  of  which  Dick  Farn- 
ham's  boyish  figure  sat  cross-legged  with  his  bat  over 
his  knees. 

"I  thought  it  was  the  right  thing  when  I  did  it," 
John  said,  silently  addressing  the  picture.  "And  now 
I  can  only  do  my  best.  It  is  better  for  her  to  be  a 
little  unhappy  with  me,  than " 

He  drew  out  his  watch  and  opened  the  case.  The 
childish  face  with  the  pure  brow  and  clear  eyes  looked 
straight  at  him.  He  gazed  down  at  it  till  a  tear 
startled  him  by  splashing  on  the  painted  card.  He 
dried  it  with  apprehensive  care,  and  his  eyes  afterward. 

"Anything  is  better  than  that  she  should  belong 
to  a  man  of  that  kind."  But  if  she  loved  him?  Could 
not  love,  like  charity,  "cover  a  multitude  of  sins." 
In  that  moment  the  realization  came  to  him  that  if 
Mary  had  been  guilty  of  all  that  slander  had  imputed 
to  her,  and  had  told  him  (John)  that  she  loved  him 
best,  he  would  have  felt  himself  happy  in  taking  her. 

"I  had  no  rival  in  her  love  then,"  he  thought, 

(398) 


"A  LITTLE  SOMETHING"  399 

recalling  her  face  when  she  had  put  the  little  picture 
into  his  hand  on  Christmas  morning  three  years  ago. 
But  it  had  been  a  child's  love.  She  loved  him  no 

less  now,  only He  closed  the  watch  case  and 

covered  his  face.  The  soft  brilliancy  of  her  look  which 
it  was  always  hard  for  him  to  meet,  came  before  his 
closed  eyes.  She  had  never  meant  to  mislead  him; 
never  thought  of  trying  to  convey  more  than  she  felt. 
There  was  some  physical  property  in  the  humors  or 
lenses  of  the  eyes  that  would  magnify  feeling  without 
her  will.  Surely  they  were  the  honestest  eyes  in  the 
world!  John  Patterson  called  to  the  witness-stand 
would  have  borne  no  uncertain  testimony  to  the 
message  of  those  eyes,  and  would  -stoutly  have  com- 
bated the  magnifying-glass  theory;  but  he  did  feel  that 
married  people  in  his  master's  walk  of  life  had  different 
ways  from  "poor  folks,"  and  his  most  ardent  wish — 
unconfessed  even  to  the  partner  of  his  bosom — was 
that  he  might  just  once  "see  them  kiss  each  other 
good." 

There  was  a  brisk  tap  at  the  door.  John  had  not 
noticed  steps,  and  his  clerks  were  gone.  He  had  given 
them  a  holiday  to-day.  He  unlocked  the  door  and 
stood  face  to  face  with  George,  whose  beaming  coun- 
tenance suddenly  shadowed  as  his  eyes  met  John's. 

"I  went  to  the  house  to  find  you,"  he  said,  "and 
Mary  told  me  you  had  come  down  here  again  after 
lunch.  I  told  her  my  news" — the  brightness  would 
break  through  the  momentary  cloud!  "Oh,  John! 
I  think  I  owe  it  all  to  you." 

"You  don't  tell  me  you  have  that  news  for  us," 
John  said  in  a  bantering  voice,  but  grasping  George's 


400  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

shoulder  with  a  hand  that  trembled  in  spite  of  him. 
"I  am  surprised,"  he  smiled  brightly;  then  he  said 
gravely:  "George,  I  needn't  tell  you  how  happy 
this  has  made  me.  She  is  a  noble  woman  who 
hasn't  been  a  bit  spoiled  by  prosperity,  and  it  hasn't 
needed  superhuman  perception  to  know  something 
of  what  she  thinks  of  you." 

"I  can't  possibly  take  it  in,"  George  said,  winking 
away  some  womanish  moisture,  and  troubled  amid 
all  his  happiness  with  concern  for  his  friend.  John's 
face  was  old  and  lined. 

"Mary  says  you  are  to  dress  a  tree  this  evening," 
he  said  smiling,  but  looking  keenly  at  John's  eyes. 

"Yes,  we're  both  children  on  the  subject  of  Christ- 
mas trees,  and  I  sent  up  a  lot  of  gimcracks  yesterday 
to  put  on  it." 

Christmas  brings  warmth  and  cheer  to  the  saddest 
heart  if  haply  no  bitterness  lurks  at  its  core;  and  the 
dressing  of  that  tree,  the  tying  of  parcels  and  filling 
of  baskets  that  were  to  carry  Christmas  into  many 
humble  homes,  the  practical  consultations,  the  hun- 
dred nameless  intimacies  of  mutual  labor,  and  above 
all  the  knowledge  of  their  oneness  in  love  for  the  great 
Cause  of  Christmas — in  desire  for  service  under  His 
banner — all  these  influences  made  John's  cheerful- 
ness not  wholly  forced,  and  for  those  few  hours  hope 
struggled  to  life.  It  was  gone  again  next  morning 
when  he  put  the  velvet  case  beside  her  plate  ready 
for  the  Christmas  breakfast;  and  her  face  when  she 
opened  it  baffled  him.  Was  there  any  joy  in  the  con- 
flict of  emotions  he  read  there?  He  could  not  see  it, 
but  something  in  her  brimming  eyes  and  pale  cheeks 


"A  LITTLE  SOMETHING"  401 

as  she  laid  the  gift  down  and  came  toward  him, 
brought  vividly  to  his  mind  the  memory  of  that 
tear- wet  face  that  had  pressed  his  on  the  day  of  their 
first  parting.  The  pain  of  the  recollection  unmanned 
him,  and  the  lips  that  touched  her  forehead  for  an 
instant  were  cold.  She  knew  that  something  was 
wrong,  but  she  had  not  courage  to  question. 

In  the  days  and  weeks  that  followed  he  evidently 
avoided  her,  and  it  seemed  as  though  chance  inter- 
vened to  keep  them  always  apart;  to  fill  the  time 
they  might  have  been  together  with  a  host  of  trivial 
engagements  and  interruptions. 

Mary  could  not  tell  what  was  going  on  in  his  mind, 
and  his  manner  to  her  was  tenderness  itself;  but  it 
seemed  as  though  some  trouble  in  which  he  would 
not  allow  her  to  share  was  making  him  thin  and  worn, 
and  each  timid  effort  on  her  part  to  approach  him 
was  met  with  a  gentle,  but  decided  withdrawal. 

In  those  three  long,  long  years  of  his  guardianship, 
John  had  tried  to  follow  his  mother's  advice  and  school 
himself  for  every  possible  discipline  later  on.  Many 
times  he  had  pictured  himself  beside  Mary  happily 
married  to  someone  else,  but  always  dependent 
(as  he  felt  she  always  would  be)  on  himself;  but  the 
thought  of  her  tied  to  him — for  "as  long  as  they  both 
should  live" — and  unhappy;  trying  to  conquer  love 
for  someone  else — mutely  craving  forgiveness  in 
numberless  little  wistful,  affectionate  ways — oh,  he 
had  never  faced  that,  never  schooled  himself  for  that ! 

The  patient  courage  which  had  kept  him  sane 
and  helped  him  to  understand  her,  gave  place  to  fits 
of  utter  depression  and  passionate  longing  that  drove 

26 


402  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

him  to  any  subterfuge  rather  than  be  left  alone  to 
face  her  eyes. 

One  raw,  dull  evening  in  early  February  he  stood 
in  evening  clothes,  waiting  in  the  hall  for  her. 
They  were  to  dine  with  Miss  Hutchinson  and  go 
afterward  to  see  the  Kendalls  in  "Still  Waters  Run 
Deep."  It  was  to  be  an  informal  party,  Elsie  Ray- 
mond being  asked,  and  Ellen  Logan  with  Philip 
Dillwyn,  who  was  in  pretty  constant  attendance 
on  his  cousin  of  late;  and  there  were  a  couple  of  extra 
swains  to  balance  "Cousin  Mary"  and  Elsie. 

John  raised  his  eyes  as  the  graceful  figure  in  a  dress 
of  soft  violet  blue  silk,  with  square-cut  neck,  turned 
the  stair  landing.  Her  beauty  hurt  him.  She  saw 
the  involuntary  contraction  of  his  face  as  he  turned 
his  eyes  away. 

"John,  I  know  you  are  not  well.  I  wish  you  would 
let  us  stay  at  home.  I  would  so  much  rather!"  She 
seemed  struggling  with  some  inner  agitation. 

"Why,  I  am  perfectly  well,  dear,  and  it  would 
never  do  to  disappoint  Miss  Hutchinson  at  this 
eleventh  hour."  He  took  the  cloak  from  her  arm 
and  prepared  to  hold  it  for  her.  "You  wanted  to 
see  this  play,  too,  and  so  do  I." 

He  knew  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  although 
he  would  not  look  in  her  face.  "Not  yet,"  she  said, 
warding  off  the  wrap.  "If  I  must  go,  I  want  my 
pearls."  There  was  no  brightness  of  face  or  voice. 

He  opened  the  safe  under  the  stairs  and  took  out 
the  velvet  case. 

"Won't  you  clasp  them  on  for  me,  please?"  Why 
did  she  want  to  test  him  thus?  John  thought.  His 


"A  LITTLE   SOMETHING"  403 

jaw  was  squared  as  he  put  the  necklace  around  the 
white  throat.  He  tried  not  to  touch  her,  and  his 
hands  were  trembling  so  much  that  the  little  bril- 
liant-studded clasps  would  not  join. 

"I  think  my  eyes  are  getting  old,"  he  said  with  a 
forced  laugh,  "and  the  light  is  very  poor.  I  believe 
you  can  do  it  better  by  the  feel." 

She  said  nothing,  but  lifted  her  arms  without 
looking  around,  and  took  the  clasps  from  his  unsteady 
fingers. 

John  was  the  gayest  of  the  little  party  assembled 
round  the  board  in  Miss  Hutchinson's  grand  dining- 
room,  but  Mary  saw  that  he  ate  practically  nothing, 
and  her  own  spirits  were  at  the  ebb. 

"Mr.  Brown,  I  hope  you  don't  mind  sitting  on  the 
front  row,  but  these  seats  are  so  cramped  I  know 
you  would  be  in  misery  on  this  one,  and  I  will  keep 
you  company."  Miss  Hutchinson  steered  her  guests 
into  row  B,  while  she  moved  around  in  front. 

"That  was  a  very  kind  thought,  even  without 
the  bonus,"  John  said  laughing  and  following  her. 
"Only  I'm  afraid  of  George's  black  looks  on  my 
back;  my  coat  is  thin." 

"Black  looks  never  penetrate,"  she  answered,  but 
she  colored  very  prettily  as  her  eye  met  a  look  which 
certainly  was  not  black.  They  were  hardly  settled 
before  the  curtain  went  up  and  the  play  began. 

John  knew  not  and  cared  not  what  they  were 
talking  about.  His  mam  feeling  was  dead  weariness 
and  a  sense  of  thankfulness  that  for  the  time  being 
the  acting  was  to  be  only  on  the  stage.  Did  Miss 
Hutchinson  guess  that  something  was  amiss?  At 


404  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

least  she  did  not  appeal  to  him  when  there  was  a  joke 
or  bon  mot,  and  there  were  many.  Two  or  three  times 
she  looked  back  with  an  appreciative  twinkle,  but 
she  quite  ignored  John.  Even  between  the  acts 
she  discussed  the  play  volubly  with  Philip  Dillwyn, 
who  was  Mary's  partner,  and  John  was  relieved. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  the  third  act  that  there  came 
a  sudden  loud  explosion  followed  by  a  cry  of  fire  and 
a  spring  of  the  audience  to  its  feet,  and  the  next 
moment  the  house  was  in  utter  darkness.  John  rose 
too,  but  like  one  suddenly  wakened  to  a  strange 
world  and  uncertain  what  was  happening.  There 
was  a  mad  rush  for  the  exits  accompanied  by  sten- 
torian shouts  of  "Keep  your  seats,"  which  no  one 
heeded.  The  new  electric-light  plant  was  spoken  of, 
but  there  was  little  time  or  inclination  for  surmises. 

John  heard  his  own  name  in  Mary's  voice  and  felt 
her  hand  on  his  arm.  He  was  wide-awake  now  and 
thinking  fast.  He  turned  and  put  his  hands  under 
her  elbows  and  lifted  her  lightly  over  the  seats  to 
where  he  stood.  "Through  the  boxes!"  he  called 
to  the  others,  and  without  an  instant's  delay,  as 
thick  smoke  was  coming  from  below  the  stage,  he 
reached  back  and  groped  for  Mary's  wrap,  drew  her 
to  the  parapet  of  the  foremost  box  and  lifted  her  over. 
As  he  vaulted  to  her  side  he  realized  that  none  of 
the  others  would  be  able  to  accomplish  his  feat. 

"The  second  box  is  lower,"  he  called  with  all  the 
power  of  his  lungs,  and  then  he  felt  for  the  velvet 
hangings,  and  pushed  Mary  in  front  of  him  through 
into  the  inky  black  of  the  passage  behind. 

"Don't  be  frightened,   dearest,   there  is  an  exit 


"A  LITTLE   SOMETHING"  405 

very  near."  Apparently  the  occupants  of  the  boxes 
were  all  rinding  it,  for  they  were  quite  alone.  He 
felt  her  nestle  close  to  him,  and  involuntarily  his  arms 
closed  round  her  as  he  paused  a  moment  from  his 
labors. 

"I  don't  care  about  anything  in  the  world  if  only 
I  am  with  you!"  It  was  the  tone  more  than  the 
words  that  pierced  the  veil  of  misunderstanding 
and  struck  his  heart.  He  bent  over  her  with  an  inar- 
ticulate murmur.  In  the  palpitating  darkness  their 
lips  met,  and  time  and  place  were  not.  The  shouts 
and  groans,  the  sounds  of  striving  and  panic  fell 
on  deaf  ears.  In  that  long,  long  kiss,  the  years  of 
patience  and  pain  were  blotted  out,  and  John  was 
drinking  life's  elixir  at  its  source.  It  was  not  long 
"as  men  count  time."  A  strong,  cold  draught  told 
them  the  exit  was  near,  and  he  released  her  just 
enough  to  wrap  her  in  the  warm  folds  of  the  cloak 
before  he  lifted  her  high  in  his  arms  and  moved  stead- 
ily forward.  Even  then  he  pressed  but  gently 
through  the  struggling,  panting  crowd,  taking  care 
how  he  used  his  advantage  of  height  and  strength. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken  between  them  till  they  gained 
the  little  open  passage  outside,  and  he  was  pushing 
on  to  the  street. 

Then  Mary  said  suddenly,  "Oh,  it's  snowing  and 
you  have  no  hat  nor  coat."  She  was  answered  only 
by  a  closer  clasp  and  a  happy  little  laugh.  We  have 
all  of  us  been  told  over  and  over  again  that  content- 
ment is  a  state  of  mind  and  has  little  to  do  with 
outward  circumstances.  However  it  be  in  general, 
it  is  an  undeniable  fact  that  the  cold  February  wind 


406  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

and  the  wet  February  snow  beating  upon  John's 
uncovered  head  and  thinly-clad  shoulders,  had  no 
more  power  than  the  slush  of  the  pavement,  pene- 
trating his  evening  shoes,  to  cool  that  warmth  at  his 
heart's  core. 

He  did  not  understand  it.  Explanations  might 
be  possible  or  impossible.  It  might  be  some  sudden 
miracle,  or  a  gradual  unconscious  growth.  All  need 
of  question  or  answer  was  far  from  him  as  yet.  He 
knew  the  one  thing  that  made  all  others  indifferent. 
His  pain  of  an  hour  ago  had  been  as  real  as  his  rapture 
now,  but  he  did  not  ask  for  proofs.  His  heart  was  too 
full  for  one  word. 

Barney  McGonigle,  his  favorite  Jehu,  was  ahead 
of  time  at  the  appointed  spot  as  he  always  was,  his 
motto  being  "first  come,  first  served,"  and  was 
already  alive  to  the  fact  that  "something  was  up." 

"Is  your  horse  rough?"  John  asked  as  the  man 
clambered  down  and  held  open  the  door. 

"I'm  just  afther  gettin'  fresh  carkin's  on  'im, 
surrh." 

"Good!  then  drive  Mrs.  Brown  home  as  quickly 
as  you  can  and  come  right  back  here  for  me."  He 
placed  his  burden  inside  as  he  spoke  and  drew  back. 
But  Mary  was  too  quick.  Her  hands  were  clasped 
around  his  arm  and  they  were  strong.  "What  are 
you  going  to  do?"  she  gasped. 

"I  must  go  back  and  help  the  others.  It  will 
be  only  a  little  while.  I  feel—  "  he  spoke  in  her  ear, 
his  cheek  to  hers — "I  feel  strong  enough  to  lift  a 
mountain." 

She  knew  him  too  well  to  attempt  to  dissuade 


"A  LITTLE  SOMETHING"  407 

him.  She  yielded  and  leaned  back  in  the  cab  while 
the  willing  Barney  made  the  best  of  his  "carkin's." 
An  hour  later,  John  Patterson,  drawn  to  the  open 
pantry  door  by  the  sound  of  his  master's  key  (a  lemon 
in  one  hand  and  a  decanter  in  the  other),  had  that 
ardent  wish  of  his  fulfilled.  But  the  purring  of  the 
kettle  and  Hannah  at  the  same  time  prevented  his 
hearing  those  low  words  which  were  for  Mary's  ear 
alone;  "My  precious  wife!  I  had  to  try  to  do  a  little 
something  to  earn — heaven!" 


CHAPTER  XLII 

THE  MORNING  AFTER 

"  T~  SEE  they  had  a  scrimmage  in  the  —       —  Street 

|    Theater  last  night  that  might  have  cost  a  good 

many  lives.      Fortunately  it   seems   to  have 

ended  with  nothing  worse  than  a  lot  of  people  gettin' 

their  corns  tramped  on,  and  some  women  fainting 

and  havin'  hysterics.      They  always  keep   'em  on 

tap!"     Dr.  Ross  folded  his  newspaper  and  laid  it 

on  the  table  beside  him,  while  he  took  the  cup  of 

coffee  his  daughter  reached  across  to  him. 

"A  'scrimmage'?"  She  spoke  with  a  mixture  of 
displeasure  and  curiosity.  Her  father's  language 
was  a  thorn  in  the  refined  flesh  of  Miss  Gladys  Ross, 
but  curiosity  was  stronger  than  disdain,  to  judge  by 
the  expression  on  her  plain  face.  Her  father  was  a 
great  favorite  among  his  patients,  she  knew,  and  had 
manners  both  courtly  and  elegant  when  he  chose; 
but  "the  older  he  got,  the  more  license  he  allowed 
himself,  and  the  greater  pleasure  he  seemed  to  take 
in  rubbing  her  the  wrong  way." 

"Well,  I  haven't  time  to  go  into  all  the  details; 
I  leave  that  for  you.  Some  chemical  or  other  exploded 
under  the  stage  and  made  a  noise  and  smoke  and  a 
bad  smell,  and  right  on  top  of  it  the  lights  went  out. 
The  paper  seems  to  think  it  was  a  put-up  job  of  a 

(408) 


THE  MORNING  AFTER  409 

gang  of  pickpockets  who  knew  about  the  lighting, 
and  that  they  probably  made  a  big  haul.  I'd  like 
the  chance  to  wring  their  necks,  every  mother's 
son  of  'em.  What's  that?"  The  last  sharp  remark 
was  addressed  to  the  maid  who  handed  him  a  note. 
"Where  did  it  come  from?" 

"Mrs.  Brown's  man  brought  it  round  a  little  while 
ago.  I  was  just  goin'  to  give  it  to  you  when  Mrs. 
Ross  rang  for  her  breakfast."  (Mrs.  Ross  was  a 
confirmed  invalid  who  never  came  down  to  the  7.30 
family  breakfast.) 

"Mrs.  Brown's  man?  John  Patterson?"  The 
doctor  took  the  small,  square  envelope,  addressed 
in  a  clear,  characteristic  hand  (Mary's  writing  had 
improved  much  since  the  old  days),  and  tore  it  hastily 
open.  He  read  the  contents  aloud: 

John  hurt  his  hand  bursting  open  a  door  at  the  theater  last 
night.  He  says  it  is  nothing,  but  I  know  it  ought  to  be  cared 
for  at  once.  Could  you  come  around  before  your  office  hours? 

Hastily  yours, 

MARY  FARNHAM  BROWN. 

Dr.  Ross  glanced  at  the  clock  and  commenced  to 
ply  his  knife  and  fork  energetically,  his  eye  still  on 
the  little  note. 

"First  time  in  twenty  years  I've  been  called  in  for 
John  Brown  himself,  often  as  we've  confabbed  over 
other  people."  There  was  an  entire  transformation 
hi  the  doctor's  voice  and  manner.  "What  fool  thing 
has  he  been  doing,  I  wonder.  Trying  to  help,  of 
course.  I  wouldn't  have  been  surprised  to  hear  of  his 
being  in  bed,  though,"  he  added,  with  a  somber  brow; 


410  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"for  I  met  him  lately  and  he  looked  down  and  out. 
I  couldn't  get  his  face  out  of  my  mind.  I'm  afraid 
"  the  doctor  checked  himself  and  hastily  drowned 
his  fears  in  the  remains  of  his  coffee.  He  did  not  feel 
like  communicating  them  to  his  daughter,  but  she 
forestalled  him. 

"I  think  he's  one  of  the  cases  that  'married  in  haste ' 
and  is  'repenting  at  leisure." 

Dr.  Ross  winced  perceptibly  as  he  set  down  his 
empty  cup,  but  he  only  gave  a  contemptuous  "Pooh!" 
He  did  not  rise  at  once,  however,  as  he  had  meant  to, 
and  the  glance  he  gave  his  daughter  showed  a  certain 
interest  in  her  grounds  of  diagnosis.  If  there  was  one 
man  whose  welfare  the  doctor  took  to  heart  more 
than  another's,  that  man  was  his  old  patient's  son. 

"Well,  I've  always  said  it  was  a  big  risk  for  a  set- 
tled, quiet  man  like  Mr.  Brown  to  marry  any  girl 
in  her  teens,"  Miss  Gladys  went  on,  sagely;  "but 
I've  heard  things  about  her  lately,  and  she's  not  the 
kind  of  woman  to  make  any  decent  man  happy." 
In  spite  of  her  father's  snort,  she  saw  she  had  thor- 
oughly roused  his  curiosity.  She  also  thought  she 
saw  that  the  idea  was  not  a  new  one  to  him.  "I've 
not  been  listening  to  gossip.  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about,  and  I  got  it  straight.  Mr.  Brown  married  her 
purely  and  simply  to  save  her  reputation.  He 
promised  her  father  to  do  all  he  could  for  her,  and  that 
was  his  idea  of  keeping  his  word." 

"Nonsense!  He  has  always  been  possessed  about 
the  girl !  His  mother  told  me  herself  that  she  had  been 
opposed  to  the  idea  of  his  marrying  her  on  account 
of  the  discrepancy  in  years.  It  came  pretty  hard  on 


THE   MORNING  AFTER  411 

Mrs.  Brown  to  think  of  his  marrying  anybody  "- 
he  smiled  a  wry  little  smile — "but  when  she  found 
she  was  going  to  die,  she  was  keen  for  it,  and  told  me 
John  would  never  look  at  any  other  woman,  and  that 
she  knew  his  ward,  if  she  would  have  him,  could  make 
his  life  very  happy.  It  was  only  a  day  or  two  before 
the  stroke  that  we  were  talking  of  it,  and  I  spoke 
about  it  to  Raymond  after  her  death,  when  I  heard 
John  was  going  abroad.  He  said,  in  his  opinion,  the 
girl  was  cut  out  for  John.  I've  never  seen  her  near 
to,  but  she's  good-lookin'  in  the  distance.  She  wasn't 
home  when  I  called,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  pretty  enough.  That's  what  turns 
men's  heads.  Even  as  clear-headed  a  man  as  Mr. 
Brown  isn't  proof  against  a  beauty.  But  he  knew  the 
facts  when  he  married  her  in  such  a  hurry,  and  the 
people  who  admire  him  most  say  he  would  have 

married  her  just  the  same  if  she'd  been  as  ugly  as 

The  time-honored  simile  for  ugliness  being  distasteful 
to  her,  Miss  Ross  could  only  play  an  unconscious 
charade.  "You  never  would  listen  to  the  gossip 
about  her  and  Mr.  Chandler;  but  I  heard  the  other 
day — and  it  came  to  me  perfectly  straight — that  she 
had  run  off  from  her  aunt,  or  her  chaperon,  and  met 
Mr.  Chandler  at  a  deserted  house  somewhere  in  the 
country,  and  wasn't  found  for  days.  That  was  when 
Mr.  Brown  was  out  West,  but  he  knew  it  as  soon  as 
he  got  home,  and  -  — ."  She  got  no  further. 

"Damn  the  women!  Don't  let  me  hear  another 
word  of  their  scandalous  blather!"  The  doctor  rose 
suddenly,  with  fiery  eyes  glaring  through  gold-rimmed 
spectacles  like  strange  gems  in  a  thin  gold  setting, 


412  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

and  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table  with  a  force 
that  made  the  cups  jump  up  in  the  saucers. 

Apparently  he  would  not  have  heard  another  word 
if  he  had  stayed  to  listen,  for  his  daughter's  lips  closed 
like  a  vise  and  her  whole  figure  was  one  disdainful 
protest  against  his  profanity,  mixed  with  a  conscious- 
ness of  her  own  unassailable  authority.  She  did  not 
even  turn  her  head  as  he  went  out. 

"If  I'm  not  back  in  time  the  people  can  wait," 
the  doctor  said  testily  to  the  colored  lad  whose  duty 
it  was  to  mind  the  door,  as  he  went  out  into  the  snowy 
street,  not  waiting  for  his  carriage,  and  struggling 
into  his  ulster.  His  daughter  was  quick  to  discover 
his  forgotten  overshoes,  but  he  was  already  out  of  the 
range  of  her  remonstrances. 

"Come  right  in  here,  Dr.  Ross,"  John  said,  moving 
toward  the  door  of  the  den,  while  he  answered  a  volley 
of  abrupt  questions,  apropos  of  his  accident,  after 
helping  the  old  gentleman  divest  himself  of  his  snowy 
outer  garments.  "Tryin'  to  pull  down  the  temple 
of  Gaza,  as  usual!"  the  doctor  grunted,  as  he  glanced 
at  John  keenly  over  his  shoulder.  He  spread  his  hands 
above  the  blaze  of  the  newly-lighted  fire.  In  spite 
of  his  violence  toward  his  daughter's  theory  and  news, 
he  had  been  secretly  much  perturbed.  They  both 
tallied  with  his  own  private  fears  and  privately 
acquired  information.  John's  face  had  seemed  to  him 
the  face  of  a  man  bearing  a  heavy  load  and  beginning 
to  lose  his  grip  and  falter  under  it.  What  he  saw  there 
now  made  him  return  his  attention  to  the  warming 
of  his  hands  with  a  sense  of  mystification. 

"Now  let  me  have  a  look  at  it.     Hm!" — drawing 


THE  MORNING  AFTER  413 

John  to  the  window  and  removing  an  amateur  bandage 
from  the  red,  swollen  hand. 

"It's  nothing!  No  tendons  are  broken,  I'm  sure; 
but  I  suppose  I  strained  them.  The  exit  was  frozen 
and  I  jerked  pretty  hard.  Mary  tied  it  up  with  some 
arnica  we  found,  but  it  was  probably  very  old.  We 
neither  of  us  keep  much  of  a  drug  store.  We're  so 
outrageously  healthy  that  I  don't  know  whether  you 
ever  met  my  wife.  You  were  away  last  summer, 
I  remember."  Dr.  Ross  had  heard  the  step  on  the 
stairs,  and  now  turned  expectantly  toward  the  door 
as  John  introduced  them  to  each  other.  The  words 
of  conventional  greeting  were  checked  on  his  lips, 
and  he  felt  the  blood  mount  to  his  face.  He  had  been 
told  she  was  a  beauty,  but  he  had  not  expected  this 
sort  of  beauty — beauty  of  the  soul,  of  the  intellect. 
The  features  were  quite  lost  sight  of  in  that  marvelous 
loveliness  of  expression.  It  made  one's  heart  behave 
strangely  even  at  seventy.  "Anyone  who  looked  like 
that  ought  not  to  be  judged  by  the  rules  that  govern 
ordinary  women."  He  did  not  realize  that  he  was 
staring  at  her  and  holding  her  hand  an  unconscionable 
time  till  he  heard  John's  laugh — a  laugh  of  pure  bub- 
bling amusement  that  surely  came  from  some  well  of 
deep  content. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  smiling  genially  at 
his  own  expense;  "but  you  must  be  used  to  it." 

Mary  colored  warmly,  but  joined  frankly  in  John's 
laugh,  as  she  withdrew  to  the  other  side  of  the  window. 
She  pressed  forward  as  the  doctor  went  on  with  his 
interrupted  examination  of  the  wounded  hand.  "I 
shall  hurt  you  some,"  he  said,  when  John  involun- 


414  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

tarily  winced  and  frowned  at  the  probing,  expert 
though  it  was. 

"Don't  you  worry  yourself  about  John  Brown's 
'repentance  at  leisure. ' '  Dr.  Ross  said  to  his  daugh- 
ter at  luncheon.  "If  he's  made  any  mistake,  he 
would  be  mighty  sorry  to  have  it  corrected.  I  saw 
his  wife  this  morning  and  I  don't  blame  his  forgiving 
anything,  if  there  was  anything  to  forgive — which  I 
don't  believe.  I  hurt  him  like  the  mischief  to-day 
mauling  his  hand  to  find  out  what  the  trouble  was; 
but  she  slipped  hers  into  the  other  one,  and,  Lord! 
he  never  felt  me.  They  thought  my  old  eyes  didn't 
see  what  was  going  on,  but  I'm  not  such  a  bat  as  all 

that." 

#  *  *  *  *  * 

No  doubt  the  doctor's  old  eyes  would  have  enjoyed 
the  picture  in  the  den  after  his  departure. 

"No,  please,  John,"  Mary  had  said,  "I  want  to  sit 
on  this  stool  just  as  I  did  that  first  day,  only  I'll  have 
to  come  on  this  side,"  pushing  him  back  into  his  chair 
while  she  drew  the  old  well-remembered  stool  to  his 
side  and  possessed  herself  of  his  left  hand.  She  looked 
sorrowfully  at  the  bandaged  right  one,  slung  across 
his  chest.  She  had  him  rather  in  her  power  thus, 
but  however  supine  that  left  hand  lay  in  hers,  with  her 
cheek  against  its  palm  as  on  that  other  eventful  day, 
she  knew  her  withes  were  too  slender  to  hold  him  if 
he  chose  to  break  them. 

"I  understand  so  well  what  your  mother  must  have 
felt  that  day,  John.  Suppose  I  had  had  you  all  to 
myself  for  years  and  years  and  I  saw  somebody  steal- 
ing you  away  from  me!  She  was  growing  fond  of  me 


THE   MORNING  AFTER  415 

before  I  went  away,  I  am  sure,  and  I  meant  to  do  my 
best  to  make  her  love  me.  I  think  I  loved  you  even 
then;  I  mean  I  think  I  was  in  love  with  you,  though 
I  didn't  know  it.  It  seems  to  me  I  always  was,  from 
the  minute  I  saw  you  first  in  Father's  room.  I  never 
remember  'getting  religion'  and  I  never  remember 
any  sudden  change  in  my  love  for  you.  I  just  loved 
you  always,  as  much  as  I  possibly  could."  His  hand 
lifted  the  face  resting  upon  it  till  it  came  within  easy 
reach  of  his  lips.  For  the  time  being  conversation 
ceased. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  a  few  moments 
later,  "there  is  something  I  meant  not  to  allude  to, 
but  what  you  said  just  now  makes  me  change  my  mind. 
Before  you  went  to  Europe  I  hoped  you  were  growing 
to  love  me  in  the  way  I  wanted.  When  I  came  to 
you  at  Catharine's  that  day  I  would  not  have  asked 
you  to  marry  me  if  I  had  not  thought  I  read  in  your 
face  more  than  you  knew  yourself;  if  I  had  not  con- 
vinced myself  then  that  your  feeling  for — Mr.  Chand- 
ler"— he  choked  a  little  as  he  uttered  the  name — 
"was  a  passing  one,  but — since  then — I  was  afraid — 
I  had  made  a  mistake.  I  didn't  blame  you" — he 
spoke  hurriedly  as  she  dropped  his  hand  and  opened 
her  lips  to  answer,  crimsoning  to  the  roots  of  the  bright, 
dishevelled  hair.  The  arm  came  quickly  round  her. 

"Oh,  John,  that  night  we  met  Mrs.  Townsend,  I 
was  telling  you  the  truth  when  I  said  I  didn't  know 
why  I  cried,  and  even  then  I  was  afraid  you  might 
think — and  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  explain  even  if 
I  had  known  how.  Once,  before  you  came  back  from 
Columbia,  I  was  afraid  I  might  be — going  to  love  Mr. 


416  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

Chandler — in  spite  of  myself,  but  when  I  saw  you  again 
I  knew  that  whatever  I  felt  for  him,  I  only  wanted  to 
be  with  you  always.  I  would  have  been  your  secre- 
tary; your  servant — anything — so  you  would  keep  me 
with  you — but  I  dreaded  love-making  just  then. 
I  was  too  stirred  up;  and  I  was  so  thankful  to  you  for 
understanding.  I  was  so  happy  in  Canada  in  spite 
of  being  sorry  about  Miss  Newlin  and  having  the 
heartache  sometimes  over  Mr.  Chandler's  pain — he 
felt  more  than  you  think,  dear — and  I  had  the  feeling 
that  I  could  influence  him  for  good,  but" — she  seemed 
unable  to  find  words.  John  drew  her  unresisting  figure 
up  onto  his  knee  and  she  buried  her  face  on.  his 
shoulder. 

"And  when  you  knew  of  his  being  hurt ?"  he 

asked  at  length,  with  an  unsuccessful  effort  to  steady 
his  voice,  and  putting  his  face  down  to  hers.  "I 
didn't  mean  to  spy  on  you,  but  I  came  upon  you  by 
chance.  I  heard  sobs,  and  the  curtain  was  too  low. 
I  started  to  go  to  you,  but  I  hadn't  courage  somehow 
to  face  what  I  feared  was  the  truth.  I  didn't  want  to 
force  your  confidence,  but  I  hoped —  Mary  had 

started  violently.  A  sudden  realization  of  all  he  had 
felt  and  concealed,  the  memory  of  his  avoidance  of  her 
since  then,  and  of  his  altered  looks  and  manner,  smote 
her  with  full  force.  She  gasped  and  lifted  her  face,  too 
full  of  feeling  for  him  to  think  of  herself. 

"Oh,  John,  if  I  had  only  known;  if  I  only  hadn't 
been  such  a  coward!  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you 
but  I  must  try.  Perhaps  you  were  too  chivalrous. 
Perhaps  if  you  hadn't  seemed — so  satisfied,  and  I 
hadn't  begun  to  feel  lonely — well,  not  exactly  lonely — 


THE  MORNING  AFTER  417 

but" — her  eyes  sinking  suddenly — "you  seemed  to  be 
getting  farther  away  from  me,  and  I — I  remembered 
how  Mr.  Chandler  had  talked  to  me;  and  it  seemed  to 
me  you  would  never  love  me  like  that,  and  I  loved  you 
all  the  time  more  and  more.  I  got  to  crying  to  myself 
sometimes,  and  I  couldn't  tell  what  ailed  me,  and  now 
—I  know" — her  breath  was  quick;  the  honest  eyes 
tried  to  meet  his.  "I  only  wanted — this"  Her  face 
was  buried  again. 

A  sudden  flash  of  comprehension  left  John  wordless 
and  made  that  bandaged  hand  a  hateful  thing.  It 
was  some  time  before  she  turned  her  face  and  went  on, 
without  lifting  it. 

"That  day  at  the  parish  meeting,  a  girl  referred  to 
a  notice  in  the  paper,  and  I  heard  Mr.  Chandler's 
name  and  saw  a  lady  hush  her  up  and  look  toward  me. 
I  could  hardly  wait  to  get  home,  and  then  I  saw  there 
was  nothing  in  the  Bulletin  and  I  went  around  and 
got  another  paper."  She  paused  and  gasped  at  the 
memory.  "It  made  me  feel  so  terribly,  John,  and 
when  I  got  home,  I  threw  myself  down  and  began  to 
cry,  and  when  I  got  to  crying,  everything  that  had 
been  pent  up  in  me  for  weeks  came  over  me  and  made 
me  lose  all  power  to  control  myself.  If  I  only  had 
known  that  you  had  seen  me!  But  even  then  I 
wouldn't  have  known  how  to  tell  you,  and  I  might 
only  have  made  matters  worse  in  your  mind.  I 
didn't  even  dare  to  refer  to  the  news  for  fear  I  should 
break  down." 

John's  lips  were  eloquent,  if  wordless.  "Oh,  my 
dear  love,  please  try  to  understand,"  she  exclaimed 
desperately.  "7  almost  love  Mr.  Chandler.  I  hate 

27  .'^«^»    • 


418  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

to  think  of  his  being  so  horribly  hurt,  and  unhappy,  too. 
I  hate  to  have  him  go  out  of  my  lif  e  and  I  long  to  help 
him  somehow,  but — "  she  pressed  her  face  to  John's — 
"I — oh,  I  would  rather  be  your  wife  in  prison,  all  my 
life,  than  live  in  the  seventh  heaven  with  anyone  else." 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

AN  EAVESDROPPER  PERFORCE 

IT  was  a  superb  Sunday  in  September.  Every 
tree  was  laden  with  luxuriant  greenness  that 
seemed  to  feel  no  fear  of  an  impending  autumn, 
and  the  pastures  which  stretched  on  one  side  of  the 
country  lane  were  as  rich  in  grass  as  in  early  June. 

"  What  a  pretty  place  this  is !  It's  always  a  pleasure 
to  get  where  they  don't  clear  away  all  this  roadside 
growth.  The  passion  for  neatness  is  the  ruination 
of  half  the  country-side  to  me,  especially  near  the  big 
cities." 

It  was  a  man  who  spoke,  while  he  bent  and  broke 
a  sprig  of  half-blown  goldenrod — a  man  whom  we 
recognize  as  our  old  friend,  Mr.  Chandler.  He  turned 
to  the  lady  by  his  side  for  sympathy  as  he  broke  off 
more  of  his  flower-stem  and  drew  the  shortened  plume 
through  his  buttonhole.  She  smiled  acquiescence. 

"This  is  a  private  road,"  she  said;  "all  this  is  part 
of  the  old  Hutchinson  estate,  but  it  has  been  a  good 
deal  changed.  Part  has  been  sold  and  built  on,  and 
the  old  house  was  enlarged  and  altered  several  years 
ago.  It's  just  up  beyond  this  wood,  and  the  new  house 
is  further  along.  By  the  way,  you  knew  Caroline 
Hutchinson,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  coloring  at  a  memory  invoked, 

(419) 


420  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

while  his  grave  eye  roamed  over  the  meadow  and  its 
grazing  cattle,  only  reluctantly  coming  back  to  his 
companion. 

"I  forget  how  long  you  have  been  in  the  wilds,  but 
I  dare  say  you  didn't  hear  of  her  marriage.  It  must 
have  been  over  a  year  ago." 

"I  have  been  away  just  two  years  and  I  know  I 
have  missed  a  lot  of  news.  Letters  took  a  long  time 
to  reach  me,  and  my  correspondents,  except  Anna, 
are  few  and  far  between." 

"She  surprised  everybody  by  marrying  a  Mr. 
Raymond,  an  architect  of  no  special  prominence 
and  rather  out  of  her  set.  To  be  sure,  she  has  money 
enough  to  please  herself  and  she  seems  as  happy  as  a 
queen.  She  has  sold  the  town  house  and  lives  in  the 
country  all  the  year  round.  There's  nothing  love 
can't  accomplish."  She  laughed  a  very  pleasant, 
refined  little  laugh. 

"There,  you  have  a  glimpse  of  the  new  house! 
The  woods  run  close  up  behind  it.  It's  very  simple, 
but  awfully  attractive  and  homelike.  I  think  that's 
Mr.  Brown  now,  leaning  on  the  fence.  I  don't  know 
him  to  speak  to,  but  his  wife  and  I  have  exchanged 
calls.  She's  sweet." 

Her  eyes,  intent  on  the  figure  leaning  on  the  high 
gate  a  short  distance  ahead  of  them,  did  not  notice 
Mr.  Chandler's  violent  start  and  change  of  expression. 
He  stopped  short  as  though  he  would  have  turned 
about,  and  when  his  companion  stopped  also  and 
looked  curiously  around,  he  was  leaning  forward  with 
his  face  from  her  looking  for  something  in  the  road. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked. 


AN  EAVESDROPPER  PERFORCE   421 

"I  have  dropped  the  compass  off  my  watch  chain," 
he  answered  coolly,  but  without  lifting  his  head. 
He  had  in  fact  dropped  the  said  compass  on  his  bed- 
room floor  that  morning,  and,  finding  its  little  ring 
insecure,  had  left  it  on  his  dressing-table.  As  there 
seemed  no  trace  of  it,  the  lady  suggested  their  turning 
back,  judging  from  his  disturbed  face  and  heightened 
color  that  the  loss  was  important. 

But  for  one  moment,  while  her  eyes  were  bent  on  the 
ground,  he  had  scanned  the  tall  figure  leaning  with 
such  easy  enjoyment  over  the  gate,  and  saw  that  he 
held  a  child.  He  must  see  that  child!  He  was  only 
taking  a  Sunday's  walk  with  a  lady,  and  even  if  he 
were  recognized,  no  harm  would  be  done.  He  was 
not  a  coward  and  he  had  done  this  man  no  wrong. 
On  the  contrary,  he  always  felt  sure  that  he  had 
flung  Mary  straight  into  her  guardian's  arms,  and  he 
was  determined  now  to  discover,  if  possible,  how 
the  match  had  turned  out.  It  had  seemed  a  prosaic 
transaction — and  in  that  he  had  found  a  poor  sort  of 
comfort.  Brilliant,  beautiful  Mary  the  wife  of  an 
ugly,  middle-aged  man  whom  she  looked  on  as  a 
second  father,  was  a  much  more  congenial  object 
to  his  mental  vision  than  Mary  the  wife  of — well 
"that  young  Dillwyn,"  for  example. 

"It  would  be  a  needle  in  a  haystack  now,"  he  said, 
regaining  his  composure.  "I  may  have  lost  it  before 
I  left  the  house." 

The  lady  expressed  a  proper  amount  of  regret  and 
hesitation,  and  then  they  moved  on. 

Mr.  Brown  was  apparently  deep  in  thought.  His 
back  was  toward  them,  and  he  did  not  seem  to  hear 


422  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

their  approaching  footsteps.  To  be  sure,  it  was  a 
dirt  road  and  they  had  stopped  talking  and  were  both 
looking  intently  at  the  baby.  Its  head,  covered  with 
soft  rings  of  almost  black  hair,  was  presented  to 
them  crown  first  as  it  hung  over  its  father's  shoulder; 
but  having  as  yet  no  thoughts  of  the  kind  to  cause 
abstraction,  it  was  at  once  awake  to  new  sounds,  and 
lifted  its  face,  regarding  them  with  unembarrassed 
curiosity.  An  unmistakable  girl's  face.  Mr.  Chand- 
ler's heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  as  he  traced  Mary, 
feature  for  feature,  in  this  miniature  edition.  But 
the  hair  was  much  too  dark  and  the  wide,  intelligent 
eyes  were  brown. 

They  had  stopped  involuntarily — perhaps  it  was 
Mr.  Chandler  who  had  stopped — and  the  lady  waved 
her  hand  gayly  to  the  child  and  was  answered  by  a 
bright  smile  that  pulled  at  the  heart-strings  of  one  of 
the  spectators;  then,  immediately  overcome  by  some 
emotion  which  hardly  seemed  embarrassment,  the 
object  of  their  scrutiny  turned  and  burrowed  her 
little  nose  in  her  father's  cheek.  He  turned  to  her 
with  a  kiss  and  became  aware  of  the  two  people 
behind  him,  who  were  about  to  move  past. 

"I  hope  we  are  not  trespassing.  We  have  been 
rewarded  by  a  very  pretty  picture,"  the  lady  said 
smiling  as  they  went  by. 

John  could  not  lift  his  hat,  as  both  he  and  the  baby 
were  bareheaded,  but  he  smiled  and  made  a  courteous 
answer  before  his  eyes  fell  on  the  face  of  the  man  at 
her  side. 

That  was  not  a  face  easily  forgotten,  especially 
when  one  had  such  good  reason  to  remember  it. 


AN  EAVESDROPPER  PERFORCE   423 

The  gray  and  black  eyes  encountered  each  other  for  a 
single  instant,  and  Mr.  Chandler  moved  quickly  on. 
John  stood  clasping  the  baby  to  him  as  though  he 
had  been  threatened  with  kidnappers. 

"Come,  let  us  go  home,  my  blessing,"  he  said, 
kissing  the  back  of  the  head  which  was  turned  to 
watch  the  pedestrians,  but  he  stood  for  a  long  minute, 
lost  in  thought,  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

Mr.  Chandler's  mind  and  heart  were  in  such  a 
whirl  that  only  a  long-established  habit  of  manners 
and  conversation  enabled  him  to  eat  his  luncheon  and 
chat  on  indifferent  subjects  without  giving  rise  to 
comment.  He  was  but  lately  arrived  from  his  long 
wanderings  in  Asia  and  Africa,  and  had  discovered 
only  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown  were  no  longer  living 
in  the  city.  As  he  had  hesitated  to  speak  of  Mary  to 
the  people  who  could  have  given  him  most  definite 
information,  and  as  he  was,  moreover,  slow  to  take 
up  the  threads  of  a  time  so  full  of  pain — the  pain 
that  he  had  tried  to  run  away  from — he  had  been 
glad  to  ignore  the  past.  It  seemed  like  a  stroke  of 
fate  that  he  should  come  thus  unexpectedly  upon  her 
new  home.  Was  it  adverse  or  propitious?  Adverse 
it  must  be.  There  could  be  no  hope  for  him  of  speak- 
ing to  her  under  that  black  eye  that  had  looked  into 
his  to-day,  and  he  knew  Mary  too  well  to  dream  of 
asking  her  to  see  him  except  in  her  husband's  com- 
pany. He  had  thought  his  feeling  for  her  partly 
cured,  there  had  been  such  a  dull  apathy  in  his 
heart  for  a  year  past;  but  the  sight  of  the  child  had 
stirred  up  a  very  tempest  of  emotion,  not  all  unworthy, 
in  his  deepest  nature,  and  he  could  not  go  back  to 


424  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

the  city  without  knowing  more;  without  making  one 
effort  to  see  Mary,  herself. 

He  took  leave  of  his  host  and  hostess  in  the  after- 
noon, saying  that  he  would  walk  to  the  station,  as 
the  day  was  so  fine  and  the  country  so  lovely.  He 
had  no  fixed  purpose  as  yet.  He  would  trust  again 
to  fate;  but  he  would  help  her  or  force  her,  if  need 
be. 

He  found  his  way  back  to  the  lane  by  the  way  that 
he  had  quitted  it.  The  afternoon  light  made  the  green 
meadows  and  flickering  shadows  of  the  woods  even 
more  witching  than  at  noonday.  He  crossed  a  wide, 
shallow,  rippling  creek  on  an  old  stone  bridge,  and 
then  discovered  a  trodden  path  through  the  woods 
winding  up  the  hill  in  the  direction  in  which  he  felt 
sure  the  house  must  be.  He  would  risk  it!  If  he 
met  John,  he  would  make  a  manly  avowal  of  his 
wish  to  see  Mary,  since  chance  had  brought  him  near — 
and  if  it  should  be  Mary  herself  upon  whom  he  should 
come!  His  heart  was  beating  so  fast  that  he  was 
forced  to  stop  and  recover  his  breath.  When  he  found 
himself  on  the  edge  of  the  woods  he  suddenly  saw  the 
back  of  the  house  close  before  him,  and  halted  again, 
this  time  to  reconnoiter.  The  tall  screen  around 
the  drying  ground  hid  his  approach;  then  across 
a  space  of  open  lawn — he  saw  a  white  figure  pushing 
a  baby  carriage.  It  needed  no  second  look  to  tell 
him  who  it  was.  No  other  woman  moved  like  that! 
She  turned  the  coach  and  started  directly  toward 
him,  and  he  went  boldly  to  meet  her.  She  had  raised 
her  eyes  and  was  looking  across,  but  not  at  him,  at 
someone  else  who  came  at  that  moment  off  the  broad 


AN  EAVESDROPPER  PERFORCE       425 

piazza,  and  went  to  her.  His  wonderful  chance  was 
gone.  He  must  do  something  quickly.  They  would 
see  him  if  he  went  back  and  how  should  he  explain 
his  coming  from  that  quarter.  His  composure — such 
as  it  was — was  so  completely  gone  by  this  time  that 
he  knew  he  could  not  utter  a  word.  He  moved  so 
that  a  tree  came  between  him  and  them  and  walked 
on  trying  to  get  his  breath  back  and  think  what  was 
to  be  done.  The  realization  came  to  him  as  he  heard 
their  voices  close  to  him  on  the  other  side  of  his 
screen,  that  he  had  cut  himself  off  from  any  straight- 
forward program.  He  must  hide  in  those  thick 
spruce  boughs.  There  was  no  help  for  it!  It  was  a 
large  tree  in  the  prime  of  life,  close  by  the  end  of  the 
piazza. — no  newly  planted  one.  He  would  risk  it. 
If  he  was  caught  he  would  confess  all :  he  had  never 
been  a  burglar,  with  all  his  sins,  he  thought  bitterly. 

They  were  so  close  to  him  that  he  only  dared  peep 
with  caution  and  was  obliged  to  make  every  move- 
ment noiseless.  "She  is  getting  too  heavy  for  you 
to  carry,  Mary !"  What  a  good  voice  Mr.  Brown  had ! 

"Nonsense,"  came  the  light  response.  It  thrilled 
him  through  and  through.  "I'd  have  to  be  a  good 
deal  weaker  than  I  am  before  I  would  give  up  carrying 
you,  my  precious.  Why,  John,  I'm  ever  so  much 
stronger  than  Anna,  really." 

Mr.  Chandler  had  only  seen  glimpses  of  white 
through  the  thick  branches  of  the  tree,  but  his  im- 
provised peep-hole  brought  them  into  full  view  as 
they  came  up  onto  the  piazza,  and  not  a  word  could 
escape  him.  Passion  blinded  him  for  the  moment  to 
the  part  he  was  playing.  He  thought  they  were 


426  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

going  in,  but  John  seated  himself  in  a  great  chair, 
evidently  his  special  property,  with  the  baby  on  one 
knee  and  his  wife  on  the  other.  Her  face  was  full 
toward  the  eavesdropper  at  the  moment  and  he  gazed 
as  though  he  were  filling  his  heart  for  the  desert 
beyond.  It  bore  no  sign  of  passivity,  of  "letting 
herself  be  loved."  She  settled  into  the  circle  of  that 
long  arm  as  into  a  favorite  cosy  corner  of  the  sofa 
and  there  was  a  day-in-and-day-out  accustomedness 
to  the  picture  that  stilled  the  onlooker's  passion  like 
a  cool  hand  on  hot  pulses. 

"I  never  get  a  chance  to  carry  her  when  you  are 
around.  She  loves  you  best.  Oh,  yes,  she  does!" 
putting  her  fingers  over  his  mouth  and  the  right  arm 
around  his  neck.  "Everybody  loves  you  best!" 
(Her  gag  had  need  to  be  a  firm  one.)  "And  I  love 
them  to  love  you  best,  because  you  love  me  best." 

John  had  no  need  of  words,  even  when  she  removed 
her  hand,  and  there  was  a  silence  for  some  moments 
while  Mary's  cheek  was  pressed  against  his  dark 
one  and  her  eyes  looked  directly  into  the  eyes  of  the 
unseen  witness.  He  felt  that  he  must  cry  out  to  her 
to  spare  him!  The  baby  drew  their  attention  to 
herself  by  putting  up  her  hand  to  be  kissed  first  by 
one  and  then  by  the  other. 

"John,"  Mary  said  whimsically,  after  she  had 
satisfied  her  small  daughter,  "I  read  an  article  in 
last  night's  Bulletin.  The  title  caught  my  eye: 
"How  to  Keep  Your  Husband's  Love";  and  of  course 
I  wanted  to  know.  What  do  you  think  he  said- 
it  was  by  a  man,  too — he  said  not  to  pet  your  husband 
nor  fondle  him  too  much ;  to  let  him  do  most  of  that — 


AN  EAVESDROPPER  PERFORCE       427 

not  to  make  yourself  cheap!  What  do  you  think  of 
that?  Do  you  suppose  it  would  be  true,  in  general?" 
She  looked  at  him  with  naive  gravity. 

"I  dare  say  it  would  be  pretty  good  advice — 'in 
general' '  — mimicking  her  voice  and  kissing  her  un- 
smiling lips. 

"Well,  I'm  thankful  I  didn't  marry  any  of  those 
other  men,  'in  general,' '  — with  a  fleeting  smile, 
but  real  interest  in  her  subject:  "I  never  should  be 
able  to  love  anybody  economically!" 

John's  laugh  was  interrupted  by  a  sudden  memory, 
and  his  kiss  this  time  was  of  a  quite  different  kind. 

"What  makes  you  look  at  me  like  that,  dear? 
You  have  something  on  your  mind,  I  know.  That's 
just  the  way  you  looked  at  me  when  you  came  in  to 
dinner,  and  you  kissed  me  so  hard  you  almost  hurt 
me.  What  is  it?"  John  flushed  and  looked  unde- 
cided. 

"The  sun  is  going  down,  and  this  little  girl  has 
only  a  thin  sack,"  he  said  evasively.  The  maternal 
instinct  was  not  appealed  to  in  vain.  Mary  at  once 
drew  the  big  watch  from  his  pocket  and  looked  at  it. 

"Why,  it's  almost  six;  I  had  no  idea.  See  how 
contentedly  she  is  playing  with  your  buttons.  It's 
a  shame  to  take  her  to  bed.  Sunday  is  our  red-letter- 
day,  isn't  it,  Janet.  I'll  go  in  a  minute,  really;  but 
her  hands  are  warm,  and  I  can't  wait  to  know  what 
ails  you." 

John  drew  her  closer,  as  though  he  felt  the  eaves- 
dropper's intrusive  presence  in  the  very  air.  He 
hesitated  a  moment;  then  he  told  of  the  meeting  of 
the  morning.  He  did  not  look  at  her  closely,  but  he 


428  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

felt  that  she  was  moved,  and  Mr.  Chandler  blessed 
her  for  the  soft  color  that  suffused  her  face,  and  the 
grave  sweetness  with  which  she  received  news  of  him. 
She  was  not  troubled,  but  she  was  somewhat  excited, 
as  women  generally  are  at  the  mention  of  the  man  who 
has  once  loved  them. 

"John,"  she  said  solemnly,  "I  always  felt  something 
fine  and  uncommon  in  him  in  spite  of  everything. 
It  wasn't  only  that  he  fascinated  me  as  they  say  he 
does  all  women.  It  was  because  he  showed  me  a 
side  that  everyone  didn't  see.  You  don't  believe  it?" 
as  John  only  made  an  inarticulate  sound,  "but  I  am 
sure,  this  time,  I  can  judge  better  than  you.  Women 
often  go  by  intuition  instead  of  evidence,  and  some- 
times it  is  more  to  be  trusted."  She  leaned  her  head 
back,  her  eyes  on  the  sky:  "He  loved  what  was  best 
in  me — not  only  my  looks — and  I  am  sure  if  I  had 
married  him  he  would  not  have  been  unfaithful  to  me." 

John  looked  gravely  down  at  her.  "My  darling, 
I  am  ashamed  of  hating  so  to  hear  you  praise  him," 
he  said.  "I  ought  not  to  be  mean  enough  to  grudge 
him  your  good  opinion  when  I  have  so  much!" 

"And  you  don't  believe  I  am  right?" 

He  rose  up  with  his  double  burden  preparatory  to 
moving  in  through  the  open  window,  but  stood 
looking  down  at  her  wistful,  insistent  face. 

"Well,  perhaps  you  may  be.  I  can't  imagine  any- 
body who  had  loved  you  ever  looking  twice  at  anyone 

else." 

******* 

When,  under  cover  of  darkness,  Mr.  Chandler 
ventured  from  his  hiding  place  and  started  for  the 


AN  EAVESDROPPER  PERFORCE   429 

station  his  heart  was  too  full  to  feel  shame  at  the  tears 
on  his  cheeks  or  at  the  despicable  part  he  had  been 
playing.  He  had  a  sense  of  having  been  led  into  his 
eavesdropping. 

"She  has  chosen  the  better  part,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, unconscious  that  he  was  quoting  words  spoken 
by  august  lips  of  another  Mary.  "And  if  there  is 
any  manhood  left  in  me,  I  will  deserve  her  good 
opinion.  At  least,  I  will  never  be  unfaithful  to  her!" 


CONCLUSION 

IN  WHICH  AN  OLD  FRIEND  THINKS  ALOUD 


O 


'*  -^^VH,  Mrs.  Wharton,  it  is  so  good  to  have  you 
back!  There  is  nobody  I  can  talk  to  as  I 
do  to  you,  and  my  heart  has  been  so  heavy 
with  John's  troubles!  It  is  a  tremendous  thing  to 
separate  from  your  church  when  you  have  loved  it 
as  John  has,  and  have  worshiped  in  it  all  your  life. 
You  know  how  he  clings  to  old  associations  and  hates 
change  unless  it  really  stands  for  a  principle  or  some 
important  gain.  And  he  will  be  fifty-two  to-morrow.' ' 

"Will  he,  really?"  Mrs.  Wharton  exclaimed. 
"Well,  of  course  he  will,  for  I  shall  be  seventy-two 
myself  this  summer."  She  said  it  with  a  sigh,  but 
it  did  not  seem  to  rest  heavily  on  her  mind.  She 
looked  a  very  vigorous  old  lady  and  had  just  returned 
from  a  journey  to  the  far  East  which  would  have 
tried  the  mettle  of  most  young  women. 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  me  that  John  looks  a  day  older 
than  when  I  first  came  into  his  charge,"  Mary  said 
thoughtfully:  "He's  a  good  deal  stouter — or  I  ought 
to  say  less  thin,  for  it  isn't  in  him  ever  to  be  stout — 
and  his  hair  is  getting  very  gray  at  the  temples. 
Only  think,  I'm  just  the  age  now  that  John  was  when 
Father  died!  He  seemed  almost  old  to  me  then,  and 
I  feel  so  young!" 

(430) 


AN  OLD  FRIEND  THINKS  ALOUD    431 

"And  look  so,"  Mrs.  Wharton  said,  lifting  her  eyes 
from  her  knitting  to  follow  the  active,  graceful  figure 
that  started  in  pursuit  of  her  youngest  "hopeful," 
who  had  climbed  onto  a  stool  and  was  preparing  to 
pull  the  lamp  off  the  table. 

"No,  no,  Catharine!"  trying  to  make  her  voice 
and  face  as  grave  as  possible,  and  looking  straight 
into  the  bright,  impenitent  eyes  of  the  little  mischief. 
"  Oh,  dear,  one  needs  the  patience  of  Job,  and  I  haven't 
got  it.  I  will  ask  Catharine  to  keep  her  while  I  have 
a  quiet  hour  with  you.  She  never  seems  to  tire  of 
her  society,  but  now  that  she  can  walk,  she  is  what 
John  Patterson  calls  'stirring.' ' 

"John  Patterson  seems  as  hearty  as  ever,"  Mrs. 
Wharton  said,  as  Mary  came  back  from  her  embassy 
with  empty  arms  and  seated  herself  in  her  favorite 
low  Shaker  chair  with  a  piece  of  sewing.  "He  must 
miss  Hannah  very  much;  but  he  is  so  wrapped  up  in 
this  family  that  his  own  personal  ties  are  almost 
secondary." 

"The  children  all  love  him  dearly,"  Mary  said, 
applying  her  button-hole  scissors  to  the  little  dress 
in  her  hands.  "Sometimes  I  think  he  and  Catharine 
get  a  little  bit  jealous  of  each  other,  but  John  always 
smooths  things  out  and  makes  them  both  feel  happy. 
Dear  John!"  with  sudden  tears  in  the  eyes  she  raised 
from  her  work. 

"I  have  been  full  of  sympathy  with  what  you  have 
written  me,  and  I'm  so  anxious  to  hear  more,"  Mrs. 
Wharton  said,  with  voice  and  face  that  bore  her  out 
in  both  assertions. 

"I  couldn't  write  much  about  it,  even  to  you; 


432  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

at  least,  not  till  it  was  settled;  but  it  has  all  been 
coming  for  a  long  time.  John's  conscience  has  been 
growing  steadily  more  and  more  uncomfortable;  for 
he  felt  he  did  not  believe  the  Creeds  even  as  he  used 
to,  and  especially  that  one  article  that  has  been  caus- 
ing all  this  controversy.  John  came  long  ago  to  accept 
my  opinion  about  the  Virgin  Birth,  but  it  was  such  a 
sacred  subject  he  hated  to  hear  it  bandied  about,  and 
he  thought  he  could  go  on  being  a  good  Churchman 
and  leaving  that  out  when  he  said  the  Creed.  He 
never  taught  in  the  Sunday-school,  you  know,  and  we 
don't  teach  the  children  more  about  doctrine  than  is 
absolutely  necessary.  It  was  only  when  he  found 
other  men  being  so  severely  criticised  for  the  same 
'heresy,'  and  now  this  trial  of  Dr.  —  —  and  the 
general  feeling  against  him!  That  has  made  John 
feel  he  couldn't  keep  quiet  any  longer." 

Mrs.  Wharton  only  nodded  with  lips  pressed  to- 
gether. The  full  lower  one  protruded  more  than  it 
used,  and  made  her  little  grimace,  when  anything 
moved  her  strongly,  a  trifle  grimmer. 

"The  thing  that  has  kept  him  so  long  undecided 
what  to  do  is  the  children." 

Mrs.  Wharton  only  looked  her  interest. 

"You  know  the  family  'Creed'  has  always  been 
that  if  'Father '  disagrees  with  anyone  or  disapproves 
anything,  that  person  or  thing  must  be  wrong.  John 
knows  that  nothing  his  humility  could  urge  would 
ever  change  it." 

"And  who  is  responsible  for  such  a  state  of  things, 
I  wonder?" 

Mary  smiled  and  colored  slightly,  but  the  subject 


AN  OLD   FRIEND   THINKS  ALOUD    433 

was  too  grave  a  one  for  self-consciousness.  "Oh, 
children's  estimates  of  their  elders  are  wonderfully 
intelligent  in  the  long  run,"  she  said  with  quiet  con- 
viction. "And,  indeed,  I  wouldn't  feel  it  right  to 
teach  them  that  their  father  was  infallible.  He  thinks 
he  has  been  cowardly  not  to  have  made  a  definite 
decision  long  before,  but  when  we  have  talked  the 
matter  over,  I  have  tried  my  best  to  keep  him  from 
doing  anything  irrevocable,  though  I  dare  say  people 
will  think  his  going  out  is  all  due  to  my  influence." 

"It  has  certainly  been  your  influence  if  not  your 
will,"  Mrs.  Wharton  said,  with  an  unusually  tender 
smile  on  her  rugged  face. 

"Children  are  a  big  responsibility,"  Mary  went 
on,  only  half  heeding.  "When  John  wanted  me  to 
join  this  Meeting  because  we  enjoy  going  there,  and 
to  make  the  children  members,  I  wouldn't  consent 
because  I  have  always  hoped  that  the  wave  of  more 
liberal  feeling  would  alter  the  Creeds  some  day  or 
make  it  possible  to  join  the  church  with  reserva- 
tions." 

"Ah!"      Mrs.  Wharton  gave  a  deep-drawn  sigh. 

"I  suppose  it  was  a  childish  hope,"  Mary  said 
sadly,  "but  there  has  been  a  great  wave  of  revolt 
from  dogma,  and  no  one  knows  how  much  I  have 
wanted  to  belong  with  John;  to  have  us  all  belong 
together."  The  choke  in  her  voice  compelled  a 
pause.  "I  feel  sure  the  time  will  come  when  church 
membership  will  not  be  dependent  on  uniformity 
of  belief,  but  on  likeness  of  ideals  and  purpose," 
she  went  on;  "but  we  may  never  live  to  see  it,  and  it 
is  a  sad  time  we  are  going  through  now." 

28 


434  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

"I  have  often  wondered  whether  the  Friends 
hadn't  fulfilled  their  mission  in  the  world,"  Mrs. 
Wharton  answered.  "But  it  seems  as  though  they 
were  needed  so  long  as  nearly  every  church  keeps 
'fenced  in  with  doctrine.  Do  the  children  know  any- 
thing about  their  father's  leaving?"  she  added  in  a 
different  tone.  "Of  course  the  little  ones  wouldn't?" 

"Yes,  the  older  ones  do,  even  Dick,  though,  of 
course,  they're  too  young  to  understand  the  reasons. 
Janet  asked  me  years  ago  why  none  of  us  stayed  for 
Communion  but  Father,  and  when  I  said  we  weren't 
members  of  the  church,  she  seemed  satisfied.  I 
suppose  she  thought  people  were  born  church-mem- 
bers as  they  were  born  Americans,  and  that  was  all 
there  was  about  it;  but  last  year  George's  George 
was  confirmed,  and  of  course  he  talked  about  it  to 
Laddie  and  Lassie,  and  they  went  to  the  service." 
(Laddie  and  Lassie  are  the  twins,  entered  in  the 
family  Bible  as  John  and  Mary.) 

"I  suppose  they  are  as  inseparable  a  trio  as  ever?" 

"  Oh,  more  so,  if  possible,  and  Lassie  told  me  George 
said  she  and  Laddie  could  join  the  church  if  they 
wanted  to,  and  they  had  decided  they  did.  She 
looked  up  at  me  very  wistfully  and  said,  "Mother, 
if  we  could  join,  why  couldn't  you?  It  seems  lonely 
for  Father  to  be  the  only  one  who  is  a  really  Episco- 
palian. I  tried  to  explain  that  I  couldn't  quite  be- 
lieve what  was  necessary  to  say  to  become  a  church 
member,  but  I  saw  I  was  on  thin  ice.  She  took  me 
up  at  once.  'But  you  believe  just  like  Father,  don't 
you?'  I  felt  as  though  I  were  about  to  be  weighed 
/n  the  balance,  and  I  assured  her  that  Father  and  I 


AN  OLD   FRIEND  THINKS  ALOUD    435 

believed  almost  exactly  alike,  and,  as  that  very  natur- 
ally puzzled  her,  I  made  a  lame  attempt  to  explain 
that  it  was  different  going  into  the  church  from  being 
brought  up  in  it." 

"And  what  did  she  say  to  that?" 

"She  grasped  me  round  the  neck  and  kissed  me 
over  and  over;  I  think  she  felt  I  was  in  need  of  all 
the  sympathy  she  could  show;  but  she  never  said 
another  word.  In  the  evening  she  and  Laddie  both 
perched  up  on  John's  knees  and  commenced  to  ask 
his  approval.  I  saw  him  get  very  white,  and  his 
lips  trembled,  but  he  only  said  he  wanted  them  to 
wait  till  they  were  older  and  could  understand  better 
what  it  meant  to  join  church.  We  both  feel  that 
little  George  is  quite  too  young,  but  Caroline  says 
she  wasn't  thirteen  when  she  was  confirmed.  Then, 
their  children  have  gone  to  Sunday-school  and  are 
well  up  in  the  catechism.  They  are  such  nice  children ! 
But  Caroline  says  it  is  very  hard  on  her  living  along- 
side of  us  and  having  George  think  everything  we 
do  is  perfect.  She  says  her  family  'could  never  be 
governed  on  the  Junior  Republic  plan,  and  our 
children  are  remarkable.' ' 

"Caroline  always  bears  her  trials  good-naturedly," 
Mrs.  Wharton  said,  laughing;  "and  the  last  time  I 
saw  George,  he  looked  pretty  well  satisfied  with  his 
lot.  But,"  she  added,  in  quite  another  voice,  "I  met 
Mr.  Chandler  at  the  station  this  morning,  and  he 
agreed  with  me  that  this  household  was  about  as 
near  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  as  one  could  ever  find 
on  this  earth.  He  looked  very  well  and  happy.  I 
told  him  I  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  him,  not  only 


436  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

from  your  letters  and  John's,  but  from  all  the  chil- 
dren's. I  was  thinking  as  I  came  out  what  a  wonder- 
ful change  you  have  made  in  his  life.  How  long  ago 
was  it  that  John  brought  him  out?" 

"Oh,  more  than  ten  years!  It  was  just  when 
Laddie  and  Lassie  were  beginning  to  walk,"  Mary 
answered,  consulting  the  Mother's  Standard  Dic- 
tionary of  Dates,  which  never  fails;  "don't  you 
remember,  they  saw  their  father  coming  and  both 
started  out  for  him  and  fell  down  and  commenced  to 
cry.  Dear  little  souls,  they  didn't  know  that  they 
had  saved  a  very  painful  situation,  and  John  broke 
the  rest  of  the  ice  by  saying:  'Mr.  Chandler,  I  wouldn't 
have  dared  bring  you  out  if  I  had  known  what  an 
upsetting  effect  you  would  have  on  my  family.'  He 
said  afterward  that  'it  was  a  bad  pun  in  a  good  cause,' 
but  I  thought  it  was  a  pretty  good  pun,  too." 

"Oh,  yes!  It  all  comes  back  to  me  now;  I  can  see 
your  face  when  you  saw  them  coming  across  the 
orchard."  Mrs.  Wharton  was  very  fond  of  reminis- 
cing. 

"He  made  a  clean  breast  of  everything  to  John, 
and  they  have  surely  been  firm  friends  ever  since; 
and  if  we  have  done  him  good,  he  has  been  a  sort  of 
fairy  godfather  to  the  children.  Do  you  know  we 
are  going  to  let  him  take  Janet  to  Europe  this  summer? 
Mrs.  Townsend  is  very  much  pleased  about  it  too!" 

"  Your  little  Jane!"    Mrs.  Wharton  actually  gasped. 

"Yes,"  Mary  said,  smiling  in  spite  of  an  obtrusive 
drop  or  two.  "John  offered  it  because  he  overheard 
a  conversation  between  Mr.  Chandler  and  Jane. 
I  never  saw  anyone  more  touched.  He  told  us  then 


AN  OLD   FRIEND   THINKS  ALOUD    437 

that  it  was  his  fiftieth  birthday  (it  seems  to  be  a 
season  of  birthdays)  and  he  said  in  all  his  half  century 
he  had  never  had  such  a  present  as  that."  Mary 
stopped  a  moment  and  swallowed  hard  at  the  recol- 
lection. "Mrs.  Townsend  was  out  yesterday  in  her 
new  automobile  and  she  promised  to  mother  Janet 
to  the  best  of  her  ability.  She  has  been  lovely  with 
all  the  children,  but  she  is  especially  fond  of  Janet. 
The  child  is  wild  to  go" — Mary  could  not  repress  a 
little  sigh — "she  would  go  anywhere  with  Mr.  Chand- 
ler, but  she  does  seem  very  young  to  go  without  us." 

"I  should  think  Mrs.  Townsend  would  do  anything 
in  the  world  for  you.  She  knows  what  her  brother 
was  and  what  he  is."  Mrs.  Wharton  was  forgetting 
to  knit  on  the  strength  of  this  news.  "She  is  too 
proud  a  woman  to  acknowledge  in  words  all  she  owes 
you  and  John;  but  her  manner  and  face  tell  enough. 
There  isn't  one  man  in  a  thousand  who  could  have 
acted  as  John  did" — taking  up  her  needles  again — 
"but  he  knew  his  wife!" 

"Oh,  there  he  comes!"  Mary  said,  rising  quickly 
and  going  into  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Wharton  heard  a  hubbub  of  childish  voices, 
and  looking  from  the  window,  she  saw  John  coming 
across  the  orchard,  as  on  the  day  just  recalled,  the 
center  of  an  eager  group. 

Children  clung  to  his  hands,  bestrode  his  neck  and 
got  closer  than  free  locomotion  permitted.  Mrs. 
Wharton  would  not  follow  Mary  to  the  hall  door  to 
greet  him.  He  would  have  news  for  her  alone  and 
should  have  her  to  himself  for  a  few  moments — if 
that  were  possible  of  accomplishment.  She  saw  him 


438  A  LIVING  LEGACY 

detach  himself  from  the  children  as  his  eye  caught 
sight  of  his  wife  at  the  door.  She  did  not  move  as 
she  heard  them  come  into  the  hall  together,  but  a 
treacherous  mirror  gave  an  unsought  and  unavoidable 
picture. 

"She  will  make  up  to  him  for  everything  he  can 
lose  or  suffer!"  was  her  heart-felt  exclamation.  She 
has  never  cured  herself  of  the  trick  of  thinking  aloud. 

In  the  privacy  of  her  own  room  that  night,  she 
sat  long  by  Grandma  Farnham's  old  four-poster,  in 
Grandma  Farnham's  easy  chair,  with  reminders  of 
the  past  on  every  side.  At  last  she  adjusted  her 
spectacles  and  opened  her  Bible  aimlessly  and  ab- 
sently. Her  eye  rested  on  these  words: 

I  am  come  a  light  into  the  world  that  whosoever  believeth  on 
me  should  not  abide  in  darkness. 

And  if  any  man  hear  my  words  and  believe  not,  I  judge  him 
not:  for  I  came  not  to  judge  the  world,  but  to  save  the  world. 

The  Book  slipped  from  her  hands  and  her  somber 
eyes  were  fixed  on  space.  "And  His  followers  have 
been  hunting  heresy  ever  since,"  she  said  in  her 
strong,  emphatic  voice. 

The  quiet  bedroom  confidences  going  on  in  another 
room  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  sound  of 
scurrying  bare  feet  in  the  dark,  and  the  big  bed  was 
hastily  invaded. 

"Father,"  an  awestruck  little  voice  whispered 
from  its  safe  shelter:  "Somebody's  talkin'." 


A    000  129  146     7 


